
Gass FH 3 .5^0 

Book _ ■ L-^ (^ ^ .i 



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THB 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 

POET LAUREATE, ETC. 



COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMIS. 



VOLUME X, 



BOSTON: 
TIOKNOR AND FIELDS. 



1866- 



-'^s 



s 






It is my wish that with Messrs. Ticknor and Fieljds 
alone the right of publishing my books in America should 
rest 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME L 



Claribel 8 

Lilian « 4 

Isabel 6 

Mariana ^ 

To 8 

Madeline 9 

Song.— The Owl 11 

Second Song. — To the Same 11 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights 12 

Ode to Memory 17 

Song 20 

Adeline 21 

A Character 23 

The Poet 24 

The Poet's Mind 26 

The Dying Swan 27 

A Dirge 28 

Love and Death SO 

The Ballad of Oriaua 81 

Circumstance • 84 

-The Merman 34 

The Mermaid 35 

Sonnet to J. M. K 87 

The Lady of Shalott 88 

Mariana in the South 43 

Eleanore 46 

The Miller's Daughter 60 

Fatima 67 

(Enone 69 

The Sisters 66 

To 68 

The Palace of Art 68 

--rtady Clara Vera De Vers W 

—The May Queen. ....•^•^... «..»«.. ....... 80 



Vi OOHTBJHTS. 

PAcn 

New Year's Eve 83 

Conclusion 86 

The Lotos-Eaters 90 

A Dream of Fair Women 96 

Margaret 108 

The Blackbird 110 

The Death of the Old Year Ill 

To J. S 112 

" You ask me why, though ill at ease " 115 

* Of old sat freedom on the heights '• 116 

' Love thou thy land with love far brought " 117 

The Goose 120 

The Epic 123 

Morte D' Arthur 124 

The Gardener's Daughter 132 

Dora 140 

Audley Court 144 

Walking to the Mail 147 

St. Simeon Stylites 150 

The Sea-Fairies 156 

The Deserted House 157 

Edwin Morris ; or, the Lake 158 

To , after reading a Life and Letters 163 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece 164 

** Come not when I am dead " 165 

The Eagle ; a Fragment 166 

The Talkuig Oak 166 

Love and Duty 177 

The Golden Year 18C 

Ulysses 182 

Locksley HaU 184 

Godiva 196 

The Two Voices 199 

ITie Day-Dream: — 

Prologue 214 

The Sleeping Palace 216 

The Sleeping Beauty.... 217 

The Arrival 217 

The Revival 218 

The Departure 219 

Moral 220 

L'Envoi 221 

Epilogue 223 

Amphion 223 

St Agnes' Eve 226 

Sir Galahad 227 

Edward Gray 280 



Will Waterproof '8 Lyrical Monologue 231 

Lady Clare 238 

The Lord of Burleigh 241 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 244 

A FareweU 245 

The Beggar Maid 246 

The Vision of Sin 247 

The Skippmg Rope 253 

" Move eastward, happy earth, and leave " 254 

■ Break, break, break " 254 

The Poet's Song 255 

The Princess 255 

Enoch Arden 351 



TO THE QUEEN. 



Revered, beloved, — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth, 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that uttered nothing base ; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme, 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes. 
And through wild March the throstle calls, 
Where, all about j^our palace-walls, 

The sunlit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 
For, though the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Tom- kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day 1 
May children of our children say, 

*' She wrought her people lasting good ; 

VOL. I. 1 



TO THE QUEEN. 

•*Her court -was pure; her life serene; 
God gave her peace ; her land reposed 
A thousand claims to reverence closed 

In her as Mother, Wife and Queen ; 

*' And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons, Avhen to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet, 

By shaping some august decree, 

Which kept her throne unshaken still 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 



And compassed by the inviolate sea.' 



MAsaH,1661. 



POEMS. 



CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall ! 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth. 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the mossed headstone : 
At midnight the moon cometh 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispetli, 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



LILIAN. 



LILIAN 



Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
Wlien I ask her if she love me, 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not toll me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 

When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs, 
STie, looking through and through me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Srniling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gathered wimple 
Glancing with bkck-beaded eyes. 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 

Then away she flies. 

Prithee weep, May Lilian I 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me. May Lilian : 
Through my very heart it thriUeth 

AVhen from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 

Prithee weep, May Lilian. 

Praying all I can. 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee. 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 



ISABEL 



Eyes not do-wn-dropt nor over-bright, but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
Clear -without heat, undj-ing, tended by- 
Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not -w^ide dispread, 
Madonna--wise on either side her head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity. 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead. 

The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime ; a prudence to -withhold ; 

The laws of marriage charactered in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. 
Right to the heart and brain, though undescried, 

Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Through all the outworks of suspicious pride ; 
A courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crowned Isabel, through all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife 

Tlie mellowed reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flo-wing with a muddy one, 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 

With swifter movement and in purer light 
The vexed eddies of its wayward brother t 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else hadlfaDeu quite, 



6 MARIANA. 

With clustered flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunclies leaning on each other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not another 

(Though all her fairest forms are t}'pes of thee, 

And thou of God in thy great charity,) 

Of such a finished chastened purity. 



MARIANA. 

" Mariana in the moated grange."— ATeoaure /or Measwrt. 
I. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden- wall. 
The broken sheds looked sad and strange : 
Unllfted was the clinking latch ; 
AVeoded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " JMy life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead 1 " 

II. 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 

AVhen thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead I " 



MARIANA. 



Upon the middle of the ninjht, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change, 
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-ejed mom 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead 1 '* 

IV. 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blackened waters slept, 
And o'er it many, round and small. 

The clustered marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead I " 

V. 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curUiin, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their cell. 

The shadow of the poplar i'ell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary. 
He cometh not," she said ; 



TO . 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would tliat I were dead 1 " 



All day wltliin the dreamy house 

The doors upon their hinges creaked ; 
The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, 
Or from the crevice peered about. 

Old faces glimmered through the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead I " 

VII. 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

O God 1 that I were dead 1 " 



TO 



Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn. 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain 
The knots that tangle human creeds. 
The wounding cords that bind and strain 



MADELINE. 

The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 

Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 
Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : 
Fair-fronted Truth shaU droop not now 

V\ 1th shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 

Nor martjT-llames nor trenchant swords 
Can do away that ancient lie : 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 

Shot through and through with cunning words. 

Weak Truth, a-leaning on her crutch. 

Wan, wasted Truth, in her utmost need, 

Thy kingly intellect shall feed. 
Until she be an athlete bold. 
And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; 
Like that strange angel which of old, 

Until the breaking of the light. 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE. 

Thou art not steeped in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 

Ever varj-ing Madehne. 
Through light and shadow thou dost range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 

Delicious spites, and darling angers. 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



10 MADELINE. 

Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : but who may know 
AVhether smile or frown be fleeter V 
"Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 
Who may know ? 

Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 

Light-glooming over eyes divine, 

Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thin«, 

Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another. 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varj-ing Madeline. 

A subtle, sudden flame. 
By veering passion fanned. 

About thee breaks and dances 
When I would kiss thy hand. 

The flush of angered shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 

And o'er black brows drops down 

A sudden-curved frown : 

But when I turn away. 

Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest. 

But, looking fixedly the while. 

All my bounding heart entanglest 

In a golden-netted smile; 
Then in madness and in bliss. 
If my lips should dare to kiss 



BONG. — THE OWL. II 



Thy taper fingers amorously, 
Again thou blushest angerly; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG. — THE OWL. 

When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb, 

And the whirring sail goes round. 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 

When merry milkmaids click the latch. 

And rarely smells the new-mown hay. 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 

Thy tuwhits are lulled, I wot, 
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat, 
So took echo with delight. 
So took echo with delight, 

That her voice, untuneful grown. 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



12 RECOLLECTIONS OF 

I would mock thy chant anew ; 

But I cannot munic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
With a lengthened loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-a 



RECOLLECTIONS 

OF 

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

I. 
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy. 
The tide of time flowed back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne. 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussuhnan was I and sworn, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Ilaroun Alraschid. 



Anight my shallop, rustling through 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clcre 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide. 
Gold glittering through lamplight dim, 
And broidered sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was' in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



THE ARAUIAN NIGHTS. 18 



III. 

Often, where clear-stemmed platans guard 

The outlet, did I turn away 

The boat-head down a broad canal 

From the main river sluiced, where all 

The sloping of the moonht sward 

Was damask-work, and deep inlay 

Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 

Adown to where the waters slept. 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

IV. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop through the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I entered, from the clearer light, 
Imbowered vaults of pillared palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stayed beneath the dome 

Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Through little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fallen silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



14 BECOLLECTIOXS OP 



VI. 

Above through many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-colored shells 
Wandered engrained. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn, 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

vir. 
Far off, and where the lemon-grov% 
In closest coverture upsprung. 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possessed 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepressed, 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of tifood l£iroun Alraschid. 



Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumbered : the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, un wooed of sunmier wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flushed all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



THE ARABIAN NIGHT3. 15 



Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with \'ivid stai'S inlaid, 
Grew darker from that undcr-flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 

Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Thence through the garden I was drawn,- 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequered lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thlckets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks. 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Graven with emblems of the tune, 
In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's lattice shade 
Emerged, I came upon the gi'eat 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



16 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



XII. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers looked to shame 
The hollow- vaulted dark, and streamed 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seemed 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new risen, that marvellous time, 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

XIII. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 

Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 

Serene with argent-lidded eyes, 

Amorous, and lashes like to rays 

Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 

Tressed with redolent ebony, 

In many a dark delicious curl. 

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone , 
The sweetest lady of the time. 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

XIV. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-drooped, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diapered 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred 
With merriment of kindly pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The good Haroun Axraschid ! 



ODE TO MEMORY. 17 

ODE TO MEMORY. 



Thou who stealest fire, 
From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste, 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me 1 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Xliou dewy dawn of memory. 

n. 

Come not as ttou camest of late. 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in softened hVht 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou oamest with the morning mist, 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kissed, 

When she, as thou. 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of ovei-flowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth -with brilliance rare. 

ni. 

Whilome thou camest with the mornln'' mist, 

And with the evenmg cloud. 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest Avinu 

Never grow sere, 
Wlien rooted in the garden of the mind. 
Because they are the earliest of the year.) 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thy infant Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught from thee 

VOL. I. 2 



18 ODE TO MEMORY. 

The llgM of thy great presence ; and the cope 

Of the half-attained futurity, 

Though deep, not fathomless, 
Was cloven with the milhon stars that tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress ; 
For sure she deemed no mist of earth could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 

IV. 

Come forth, I charge thee, arise. 
Thou of the many tongues, thf myriad eyes I 
Thou comest not with shows of naanting vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
DIvinest memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple clifis, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side 
The seven elms, the poplars four. 
That stand beside my father's door. 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn, 
The filtered tribute of the rough wooflland. 

O ! hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folda, 

Upon the ridged wolds. 
When the first matin-song hath wakened loud 



ODE TO MEMORY. 19 

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 

What time the amber morn 

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal framework of wrought gold 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days : 
No matter what the sketch might be ; 
"SVhethcr the high field on the bushless Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 
Overblown with murmurs harsh. 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretched wide and wild the waste enormouf 

marsh, 
Where from the frequent bridge. 
Like emblems of infinity. 
The trenched waters run from sky to sky ; 



20 SONG. 

Or a garden bowered close 

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight groth, 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of cro\vTied lilies, standing near 

Purple-spiked lavender : 

AVhether in after life retired 

From brawling storms, 

From weary wind. 

With youthful fancy relnspired, 

W^e may hold converse with all forms 

Of the many-sided mind. 

And those whom passion had not blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded, 

My friend, with you to live alone. 

Were how much better than to own 

A crown, a sceptre, and a throne. 

strengthen me, enlighten me I 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG, 



A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours, 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 

In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers: 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; 

Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-Iiiy. 



ADELINE. 21 



II. 

The air is damp, ana liuslied, srA close, 

As a sick man's room when ht titketh repose 

An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole sov.l grie\cf 
At the moist rich smell of the loKmg leaves; 

And the breath 

Of the fading edges of baz beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the b\-oad sunf.ow^r 
Over its grave i' <he earth so cbilij ; 

Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily 



ADELINE. 

Mystery of mysteries, 
Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 
But beyond expression fair, 
"With thy floatmg fiaxen hair ; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

"Whence that aery bloom of thine. 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks through in his sad decline. 

And a rose-bush leans upon, 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well, 

Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 



22 ADELINE. 

Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline ? 

What hope or fear or joy Is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone : 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with tliine own ? 

Hast thou heard the buttei-flies 
What they say betwixt their wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice tlie violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
HoAV the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou looked upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
"Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
AVhat aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy softened, shadowed brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 

Lovest thou the doleful wind 

AVhen thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side o' the mom, 
Dripping with Sabaean spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 
With melodious airs lovelorn, 



A CHARACTER. 23 

Breathing light against thy face, 
While his locks a-dropping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring 
IMake a carcanet of rays 
And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



A CHARACTER. 

I. 
With a half-glance upon the sky 
At ni^ht he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

II. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass, 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 

Then looking as 'twere in a glass. 

He smoothed his chin and sleeked his hair, 

And said the earth was beautiful. 



He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 



24 THE POET. 

IV. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
lie canvassed human mysteries, 
And trod on sillc, as if the windls 
Blew Ills own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

V. 

With lips depressed as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. 
And other than his fonii of creed. 
With chiselled features clear and sleek. 



THE POET 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

AVith golden stars above ; 
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw through llf^ and death, through good and ill, 

He saw through his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded 

The secret'st walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
And winged with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, 

And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 

Filliug with light 



THE POET. 2S 

And vagrant melodies the winds wliich bore 

Thera earthward till they lit ; 
Hien, like the arrow-seeds of the field-flower, 

The fruitful wit, 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew 

Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 

A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnished all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of ti-uth. 
To throng -with state 1}^ blooms the breathing spring 

Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 

Though one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreams 

Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 

Like one great garden showed, 
And through the wreaths of floating dark upcurled 

Rare sunrise flowed. 

And Freedom reared in that aug^'st sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his burning eyes 

Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunned by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the globes 

Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
AH evil dreams of power,— a sacred name. 

And when she spako, 



f^ THE poet's MINI>. 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 
And as the hghtning to the thunder 

Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirled, 

But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever. 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

II. 
Dark-browed sopliist, come not anear ; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow snule and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the proves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
la the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, 



THE DTING SWAN. JJ 

It would fall to the ground if you came in. 

In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 

With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn . 

From the brain of the purple mountain 

Which stands in the distance yonder : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, though its voice be so clear and full. 
You never would hear it — your ears are so dull ; 
So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; 
[t would shrink to the earth if you came in. 



THE DYING SWAN. 

The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
Wliich had built up everywhere 

An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 

And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
And white against the cold- white sky- 
Shone out their crowning snows. 
One willow over the river wept. 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself as its own wild will. 
And far through the maiish green and stiQ 



28 A DIRGE. 

The tangled -watercourses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 

The -wild swan's death-hj-mn took the soul 

Of that waste place with joy 

Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 

The warble was low, and full and clear; 

And floating about the under-sky. 

Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 

Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice, 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flowed forth on a carol free and bold : 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is rolled 

Through the open gates of the city afar, 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 

And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, 

And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 

And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 

And the wave-Avorn horns of the echoing bank, 

And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 

The desolate creeks and pools among, 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 

I. 

Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



A DIRGE. • 29 

II. 

Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Hain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Round thee blow, self-pleached deep 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Through the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

VI. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine, 
The frail bluebell peereth over 



80 LOVE AND DEATH. 

Bare broldry of the purple clovop 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine. 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

VII. 

Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused — 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What tune the mighty moon was gathering light, 

Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 

And all about him rolled his lustrous eyes ; 

When, turning round a cassia, full in view 

Death, walking all alone beneath a yew. 

And talking to himself, first met his sight : 

" You must begone," said Death ; " these walks are 

mine." 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine ; 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 
The shadow passeth wher, the tree shall fell, 
But I shall reign forever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 81 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

My heart is wasted with mj^ woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Onana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribbed with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing. 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood, black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
WTiile blissful tears blinded my sight, 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She wattihed my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
Wis en forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 



82 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

Atween me and the castle wall, 
Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside. 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my brider 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana I 

O ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
O ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
The battle deepened in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabbed me where I lay 

Oriana I 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabbed me where I lay 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O! breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriana ; 
O I pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana. 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 83 

And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou ? whom dost thou sisek, 

Oriana V 

I cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! oh cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

AVTien Norland winds pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



VOL. I. 



14 THE MKUMAJT. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children In two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
Two lovei-s whispering by an orchard wall , 
Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower 
Washed Avlth still rains and daisy-blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 



THE MERMAN. 

Wno would be 
A mei-man bold 

Sitting alone, 

Singing alone 

Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 

On a throne ? 

I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power, 
But at night I would roam abroad, and play 
With the mermaids In and out of the rocks, 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower ; 
And holding them back by their flowing locks, 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kissed me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, 

Chasing each other merrily. 



THE M£RMAII>. 85 

There would be neither moon nor star ; 

But the wave would make music above us afar- 
Low thunder and light in the magic night — 
Neither moon nor star. 

We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 

Call to each other and whoop and cry- 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 

They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells 

Laughing and clapping their hands between, 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 

But I would throw them back in mine 

Turkis and agate and almondine : 

Then leaping out upon them unseen, 

I would kiss them often under the sea. 

And kiss them again till they kissed me 
Laughingly, laughingly. 

O ! what a happy life were mine 

Under the hollow-hung ocean green I 

Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 

We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 

Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 

Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl. 

On a throne ? 

I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; 
And still as I combed I would sing and say, 
" Who is it loves me ? who loves not me ? *' 



96 THE MERMAID. 

I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 

Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springini; alone 

With a shrill inner sound, 
Over the throne 

In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 

But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing loc^ks 

And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 
On the broad sea-wolds i' the crimson shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 

But if any came near, I would call and shriek, 

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
From the diamond ledges that jut from the dells. 

For I would not be kissed by all who would list, 

Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 

In the purple twilights under the sea ; 

But the king of them all would carry me, 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 

In the branching jaspers under the sea ; 

Then all the dry pied things that be 

In the hueless mosses under the sea 

Would curl round my silver feet silently, 

All looking up for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M K. 37 

And If I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft, 
Would lean out from tlie hollow sphere of the sea, 
All lookinnj down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier^priest 
To scare church-harpies from the master's feast ; 
Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : 
Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, 
Distilled from some worm-cankered homily ; 
But spurred at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 
Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 



POEMS. 

(published 1832.) 
THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

PART I. 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of ^ye^ 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And through the field the road runs by 

To many-towered Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Through the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towen. 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And tJie silent isle embowers 

The Lady of Shalott, 

By the margin, willow-veiled, 
SUde tlie heavy barges trailed 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 89 

By slow horses ; and unbailed, 
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed, 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land. 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to towered Camelot ; 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fiury 

Lady of Shalott." 



PART 11. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And httle other care hath she. 

The Lady of Shalott 

And moving through a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly \-illage-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market-girls. 

Pass onward from Shalott. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT* 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepht*rd-lad, 
Or long-haired page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to towered Camelot ; 
And sometimes through the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights. 
For often through the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalcr*. j 

ni ' •- 

PART III. 

A BOW-snoT from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling through the leaves, 
And llamed upon the brazen greaves ^ 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A redcross knight forever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield. 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glittered free. 
Like to some branch of stai's we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazoned baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 



THE LADT OF SHALOTT. 41 

And as he rode his armor rung, 
Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame together 

As he rode down to Camelot 
As often through the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed , 
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flowed 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the ^ k and from the river 
He flasl' ito the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra i.a," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot 

She lefk the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces through the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She looked down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror cracked from side to side ; 
♦• The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



PART IV. 

Ix the stormy east-wind straming, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complalnmg, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over towered Camelot; 



Id THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 
The Lady of Shalott, 

And down the river's dim expanse- 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling Hght — • 
Through the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
. And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 
The Lady of Shalott 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darkened whoUy, 

Turned to towered Camelot; 
For ere she reached upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott 

Under tower and balcony, 
By garden-wall and gallery, 
A gleaming shape she floated by, 
Dead-pale Detween the houses high, 
Silent into Camelot 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 43 

Out upon the wharves they came, 
Knight and Jpurgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they crossed themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

I. 
"With one black shadow at its feet. 

The house through all the level shines. 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right. 
An empty river-bed before. 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan. 

And " Ave Mary," nj.ght and mom. 

And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

II. 
She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down, 
Through rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To leit and right, and made appear, 



44 If AMANA IN THE SOUTH. 

Still-lighted In a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine,^ 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 

"jVIadonna, sad is night and mom;" 

And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

III. 
Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she cast. 

Before Our Lady murmured she; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the hquid mirror glowed 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won his praises night and mom ? 
And " Ah," she said, " but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 

IV. 

>?or bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 

And seemed knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan. 

And murmuring, as at night and mora. 
She thought, " My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 



Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. ^b 

She woke : the babble of the stream 
Fell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whispered, with a stilled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet ^Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten, and die forlorn." 

VI. 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For " Love," they said, " must needs be true 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seemed to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So le alone for evermore." 

"0 cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
" And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn ! " 



But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seemed to pass the door. 
To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more.** 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased. 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to mor% 
And day and night 1 am left alone, 
To live forgotten, and Iovq forlorn." 



49 ELEANORK. 



VIII. 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea 
Backward the lattice- blind she flung, 

And leaned upon the balcony. 
There all In spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glittered on her tears, 
And deepening through the silent spheres, 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows not morn 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



ELEANORE. 

Thy dark eyes opened not, 

Nor first revealed themselves to EnglisB lur, 
For there is nothing here, 
Which, from the outward to the inward brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood. 

Thou wert born, on a summer mom, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fanned 

With breezes from our oaken glades. 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 

Of lavish lights, and floating shades : 
And flattering thy childish lliought 
The oriental fairy brought. 

At the moment of thy birtli, 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills. 

And shadowed coves on a sunny shore, 
The choicest wealth of all the earth, 



ELEAXOKE. 47 

Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 
To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 

Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Throngh half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 

With wliitest honey in fairy gardens cuUetl 
A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
In sillc-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lulled. 

Who may minister to thee ? 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 

On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thickened from the light, and bh'nded 

With many a deep-hued bell-like flower 
Of fraCTant trailers, when the air 

Sleepeth over all the heaven. 

And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore I 

How may full-sailed verse express, 
-How may measured words adore 
The fuU-llowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like s<-atelincss, 
Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant spnraetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every hneament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 



ELEANORS. 

That stays upon thee ? For in thee 

Is nothing sudden, nothing single; 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer, in one shrine, 

Thought and motion mingle, 
Mingle ever. Motions How 
To one another, even as though 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody. 
Which Uves about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 

AVho may express thee, Eleanore ? 

I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
X muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eye» 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies. 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee for evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore I 

Sometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, 

Slowly awakened, grov/ so full and deep 

In thy large eyes, that, ovcri)Owered quite, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 

But am as nothing in its light: 

As though a star, in inmost heaven set. 

Even Avliile we gaze on it. 

Should slowly rcund his orb, and slowly grov 

To a full face, there like a sun remain 



ELEANORE. A$ 

Fixed — then as slowly fade again, 

And draw itself to what it was before ', 
So fall, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 

As thunderclouds that, hung on high, 

Roofed the world with doubt and fear, 
Floating through an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touched by thy spirit's mellowness. 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation. 
Falling into a still dehght. 

And luxury of contemplation : 
ks waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 

Shadow forth the banks at will ; 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the selfsame influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bowstring slackened, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
I Droops both his wings, regarding thee. 

And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, 
^Tiilc the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; 
Or, in a shadoAvy saloon. 
On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 
While I muse upon thy face ; 

VOL. I. 4 



60 THE milleb's DAUGHTEB* 

And a languid fire creeps 

Through my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon, 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 

With dinning sound my ears are rife, 
My tremulous tonmie faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death. 
Brimmed with delirious draughts of warmest life 
I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me. 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet. 

His double chin, his portly size. 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curled. 
Seemed half-within and half-without. 

And fidl of dealings with tie world ? 

In yonder chair I see him sit. 

Three fingers round the old silver cup— 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — ^y eyes lit up 
With summer lightnmgs of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 
My own sweet Alice, we must die. 



THE miller's ©AUQHTER. M 

There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the selfsame day. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late left an orphan of the squire. 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire ; 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long. 
Each mom my sleep was broken through 

By some wUd skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy played 

Before I dreamed that pleasant dream- 
Still hither thither idly swayed 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I leaned to hear 
The mill-dam rushing down with noise, 

And see the minnows everywhere 
In crystal eddies glance and poise, 

The tall flag-flowers, when they sprung 



!J2 THE miller's DAUGHTER. 

Below the range of stepping stones, 
And those three chestnuts near, that hung 
In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When, after roving in the woods, 
('Twas April then,) I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were gUstening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some wJM corner of the brain. 
It haunted Ilmx^ the morning long. 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watched the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set. 

That morning, on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette. 

And you were leaning from the ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright — • 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love. 

That these have never lost their light. 



THE miller's daughter. 6S 

[ loved, and love dispelled the fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possessed the atmosphere, 

And filled the breast with purer breatJu 
My mother thought. What ails the boy ? 

For I was altered, and began 
To move about the hou§e with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Through quiet meadows round the mill. 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whitened floor. 

The dark round of the dripping wheel, 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

^Vhen April nights began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmered cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away. 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From ofi" the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flowered slope. 

The deep brook moaned beneath the mill ; 

And '' by that lamp," I thought, " she sits I 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleamed to the flying moon by nts. 
" O that I were beside her now I 

O will she answer if I call ? 
O would she give me vow for vow, 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 

Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 



64 THE miller's daughter. 

Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind ^ 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And tlie long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darkened there. 

But when at last I dared to speak, T 

The lanes, you know, were white with IVIay 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 

Flushed like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 

You would, and would not, little one I 
Although I pleaded tenderly. 

And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wished me happy, but she thought 

I might have looked a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said ; 

Her eyelid quivered as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not please 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in tearfc 

1 kissed away bclbre they felL 

I watched the little flutterings, 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 

She spoke at large of many things. 
And at the last she spoke of me ; 

And turning looked upon your face, 
Ab near this door you sat apart) 



THE MILIJCR'S DAUGHTEB. M 

And rose, and, with a silent grace 
Approaching, pressed you heart to heart 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers^ -that I may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper by. 



It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear: 
For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty, dainty waist. 

And her heart would beat against me 
In sorrow and in rest : 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace. 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at nigkt. 



A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells- 
True love interprets — right alone. 

His light upon the letter dwells, 
For all the spirit is his own. 

So, if I waste words now, in truth 
You must blame Love. His early tb^ 



THE miller's daughter. 

Had force to make me rhyme in youtli. 
And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art, 
Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sin^ that other song I made, 

Halj^angered with my happy lot, 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 



Love that hath us in the net. 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget: 
Ah, no ! no I 



Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, 

Round my true heart thine arms entwine ; 
My other dearer life in Ufe, 

Look through my very soul with thine ! 
Untouched with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell I 
They have not shed a many tears. 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them welL 

Yet tears they shed : they had their part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still ailfection of the heart 



FATIMA. 57 

Became an outward breatliing type, 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more, 

With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss. 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought, 

With blessmgs which no words can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north. 

Winds aU the vale in rosy folds. 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA, 



O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might I 
O sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight. 
Throbbing through all thy heat and light, 
Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parched and withered, deaf and blind 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

II. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 



I FATIMA. 

I thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I rolled among the tender flowers : ju 

I crushed them on my breast, my month l 
I looked athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

III. 
Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shivered in my narrow frame. 

Love, O fire ! once he drew 

With one long kiss my whole soul through 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

IV. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 

He Cometh quickly : from below 

Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 

Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

V. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire, 

And from beyond the noon a fire 

Is poured upon the hills, and nigher 

The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My heart, pierced through with fierce delight} 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

VI. 
My whole soul waiting silently, 
All naked in a sultry sky, 
Droops blinded with his shining eye : 
I unU possess him or will die. 

1 will grow round him in his place, 



(ENONE. 50k 



Grow, Ii^^, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasped in his embrace. 



(ENONE. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 

The lawns and meadow ledges midway do^vn 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 

The long brook falling through the cloven ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning ; but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 

Troas and Ilion's columned citadel, 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliflf. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass: 
The hzard, with his shadow on the stone, 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop : the golden Dew 
Is lily-cradled : I al<me awake. 



•fr <ENONE. 

Mj eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves, 
That house the cold crowned snake 1 O mountain 

brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-God ; 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gathered shape : for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills. 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine : 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horned, white-hooved, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent called me from the cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 
I sat alone : white breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin 
Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Clustered about his temples like a God's ; 
And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came* 

*' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Ho smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 



(EXONE. €1 

Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I looked 
And listened, the full-flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-browed (Enone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind engraven 
" For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
And added, ' This was cast upon the board, 
"When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due i 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Goda.* 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came. 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 
Tina way and that, in many a wild festoon 



•2 CENONE. 

Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled houghs 
With bunch and beny and flower through and 
through. 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flowed a golden cloud, and leaned 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming through Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestioned, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
And river-sundered champaign clothed with com, 
Or labored mines, undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, 
From many an inland town and haven large, 
Mast-thronged beneath her shadowing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.* 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Still she spake on, and still she spake of power, 
* Which in all action is the end of all ; 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born 
A shepherd all thy life, but yet king-born. 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 
Only, are likest Gods, who have attained 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss, 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.* 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 



(ENONE. 63 

Out at armVlengtli, so much the thought of powei 
Flattered his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

" ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
Yet not for power, (power of herself 
Would come uncalled for,) but to live by law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
And because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.* 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said : * I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
/f gazing on divinity disrobed, 
TThy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbiased by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to the©, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward through a life of shocks, 
Dangers and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinewed with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled through all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased^ 
And Paris pondered, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas I ' but he heard me not, 
Or bearing would not hear me, woe is me I 



64 <ENONE. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wcUb, 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh. 
Half- whispered in his ear, * I promise thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.* 
She spoke and laughed : I shut my sight for fear; 
But when I looked, Paris had raised his arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

" Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 
When I past by, a Avild and wanton pard, 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail, 
Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she 7 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 



(EXONE. 69 

My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Fostered the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark mom 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone (Enone see the morning mist 
Sweep through them ; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moonlit slips of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruined folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquefc-haU, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
And bred this change ; that I might speak mj 

mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn hisjove a thousand times, 
In this green valley, under this green hill. 
Even on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? 
Sealed it with kisses ? watered it with tears ? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy Heaven ! how canst thou see my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
Tiiere are enough unhappy on this earth ; 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 

1 pray thee pass before my light of hfe, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 

YOU X. ^ 



66 THE SISTERS. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
r will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me more and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hilla.. 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-ofl' doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What tliis may be I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day. 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 



THE SISTERS. 

I. 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
They were together, and«*she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me welL 

O the Earl was fair to see 1 



THE SISTERS. 67 



She died : slie went to burning j3ame : 
She mLxed her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is hoAvling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and late, 
To win his love I lay in wait. 

O the Earl was fair to see I 

III. 
1 made a feast ; I bade him come : 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see 1 

IV. 

I kissed his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But I loved his beauty passing welL 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabbed him through and through 

O the Earl was fair to see I 

VI. 

I curled and combed his comely head, 
He looked so grand when he was dead 

The wind is blowing in turret and tr«3. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see I • 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

SEND you here a sort of allegory, 
(For you will understand it,) of a soul, 
A sinful soul possessed of many gifts, 
A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 
A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 
That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 
In all varieties of mould and mind,) 
And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 
Good only for its beauty, seeing not 
Tliat Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters 
That dote upon each other, friends to man, 
Living together under the same roof. 
And never can be sundered without tears. 
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 
Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnished brassy 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light 



THE PALACE OF ART. 69 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto hei*self 
In her high palace there. 

And " while the world runs round and round/* I said| 

" Reign thou apart, a (juiet king, 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily : 

" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me, 
So royal-rich and wide.** 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Four courts I made, East, West, and Southland 
North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-u)am. 

And round the cool green courts there ran a row 

Of cloisters, branched like mighty woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one swell 

Across the mountain streamed below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-blow. 

And high on every peak a statue seemed 
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 



70 THE PALACE OF ART. 

A cloud of incense of all odor steamed 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, " And who shall gaze upon 

My palace with unblinded eyes, 
While this great bow will waver in the sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never failed, 

And, while day sank or mounted higher, 
The light aerial gallery, golden-railed, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stained and traced^ 

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadowed grots of arches interlaced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 

♦ * * ♦ 

* * * * 

Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over- vaulted grateful gloom, 
Through which the livelong day my soul did pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, 

All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and blue, 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn. 
Where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seemed all dark and red — a tract of sand, 

And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced forever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 71 

One showed an iron coast and angry waves. 

You seemed to hear them cHmb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing cavea* 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ran:ged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, 

Beyond a line of heights, and higher 
All barred with long white cloud the -scornful crag9| 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twilight poured 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, 
Not less than truth designed. 

* .* * * 

* * * * 
Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 

In tracts of pasture sunny- warm, 
Beneath branch- work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-walled city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipe§, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St CecJy ; 
An angel looked at her. 



75 THE PALACE OP ART. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Houris bowed to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said, we wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
ay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watched by weeping queens. 

^r hollowing one hand against his ear. 

To list a footfall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stayed the Ausonian king to heai 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrailed, 

And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sailed 
A smnmer fanned with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped 

From off her shoulder backward borne : 

From one hand drooped a crocus : one hand 

The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot through the sky 
Above the pillared town. 

Kor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there. 
Not less than life, designed. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung 

Moved of themselves, "^ith silver sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 



THE PALACE OP ART. 73 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 
Beside him Shakspeare bland and mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasped his song^ 
And somewhat grimly snii'^d. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million vmnkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred -winters snowed upon his breast, 
From cheek and throat and cliin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely planned 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow. 

Toiled onward, pricked with goads and stings , 
Here played, a tiger, rolling to and fi-o 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man declined, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And through the topmost Oriels* colored flame 

Two godUke faces gazed below : 
Plato the wise, and large-browed Yerulam, 
The first of those who know. 



fl THE PALACE OP ART. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Full-welling fountain-heads of change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazoned fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Through which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue 

Flushed in her temples and her eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echoed song 
Throb through the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, 

Joying to feel herself alive. 
Lord over N'ature, Lord of the visible earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: " All these are mine, 

And let the world have peace or wars, 
'Tis one to me." She — when young night divine 
Crowned dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollowed moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, 

" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 
Be flattered to the height. 

** O all things fair to sate my various eyes I 
O shapes and hues that please me well I 
silent faces of the Great and Wise, 
My Gods, with whom I dwell I 



THE PALACE OF ART. 75 

** O God-like isolation which art mine, 

I can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

** In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep , 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate, 

And of the rising from the dead, 
As hara by right of full-accomplished Fat^ ; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and deed. 

I care not what the sects may brawl. 
I sit as God, holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 

* * * ♦ 

* * * ♦ 

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 
Flashed through her as she sat alone, 
Tet not the less held she her solenm mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prospered : so three years 

She prospered : on the fourth she fell, 

Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 

Struck through with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

WTien she would think,where'er she turned her sight. 

The airy hand confusion wrought. 
Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought 



T6 THE PALACE OF ART. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was bom 
Scorn of hcrseh ; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

** What ! Is not this my place of strength/* she said, 

" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory ? ** 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of bloodi 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seemed my soul, 
Tklid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, locked in with bars of sand ; 

Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward irom the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A. star that with the choral starry dance 

Joined not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Rolled round by one fixed law. 

«iack on herself her serpent pride had curled. 
" No voice," she shrieked in that lone hall, 
'* No voice breaks through the stillness of this world 
One deep, deep silence all ! " 



THE PALACE OF ART. T7 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering 
sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and nam*" 

And death and life she hated ei^ually, 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

'itemaining utterly confused with fears, 
And ever worse with growing time. 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. 
And all alone in crime ; 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, ^rt round 

With blackness as a soUd wall, 
Far off she seemed to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " 1 have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howled aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die ? " 

So when four /ears were wholly finished, 

She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she said. 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 



78 LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 

'* Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



LADT CLARA VERE DE VERB. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown ; 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name ; 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that dotes on truer charms. 



I /A simple maiden in her flower 



Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than L 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
You put strange memories La my head. 



LADY CLARA VEEE DE VERE. 79 

Not thrice your branching limes have blown 
Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 

your sweet eyes, your low replies : 
A great enchantress you may be ; 

But there was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Lideed, I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vera. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to galL " 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fixed a vacant stare. 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than !Norman blood. 

1 know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 

You pine among your halls and towers, 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
O ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

I. 
You must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear ; 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 

New-year ; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, 

merriest day ; 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to 

be Queen o' the May. 

II. 

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none 
so bright as mine ; 

There's IMargaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caro- 
line: 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they 
say : 

Bo I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 



THE MAY QUEBN. &1 



III. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never 

wake. 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to 

break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and 

garlands gay, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to 

be Queen o' the May. 

IV. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- 
tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 
yesterday, — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to 
be Queen o' the ]VIay. 

V. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 

white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of 

light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what 

they say. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the Iklay, mother, I'm to 

be Queen o' the May. 

VI. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never 

be: 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is 

that to me ? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer 

day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, Tm to 

be Queen o' the May. 

VOL. I. 6 



83 THE MAY QUEEN. 



VII. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made 

the Queen: 
For the shepherd lads on every side *ill come from 

far away, 
And I'm to be Queen o* the May, mother, I'm to 

be Queen o' the May. 

VIII. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its 

wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in 

swamps and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to 

be Queen o' the May. 

IX. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 

meadow grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten 

as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the 

livelong day, 
4nd I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to 

be Queen o' the May. 

X. 

All the vaWey, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and 

still. 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the 

hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily 

glance and play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the JVIay, mother, I'm to 

be Queen o' the May. 



NEW year's eve. 83 



XI. 

Bo you must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear, 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 
New-year : 

To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, mer- 
riest day. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to 
be Queen o* the May. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

I. 
If you're waking call me early, call me early, 

mother dear. 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New* 

year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think 

no more of me. 

II. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 

peace of mind ; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall 

never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the 

ti-ee. 

III. 
Last ISIay we made a crown of flowers : we had a 

meriy day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

Queen of May ; 



B4 NEW year's eve. 

And we danced about the May-pole and in the 

hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white 

chimney-tops. 

IV. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on 

the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops eome again : 
1 wish the snow would melt and the sun come out 

on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

V. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm- 
tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer 
o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moulder- 
ing grave. 

VI. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave 

of mine. 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill 

shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the 

hill. 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the 

world is still. 

VII. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 

waninf;^ light 
You'll never see me more In the long gray fields at 

night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow 

cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bul* 

rush in the pooL 



NEW tear's eve. 



VIII. 

Tou'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the haw. 

thorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me -where I am 

lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when 

you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and 

pleasant grass. 

IX. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive 

me now ; 
You'U kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere 

I go: 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be 

wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have 

another child. 

X. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting- 
place ; 

Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon 
your face ; 

Though I cannot speak a word, I shaU barken what 
you say. 

And be often, often with you when you think I'm 
far away.. 

XI. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night 

forevermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of 

the door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be 

growing green : 
Shell be a better child to you than ever I have 

been. 



BS CONCLUSION. 



XII. 

Shell find my garden-tools upon the granary floor 
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall nevei 

garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush 

that I set 
A.bout the parlor-window and the box of migno* 

nette. 

XIII. 

Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day 
is born. 

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- 
year, 

So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother 
dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I. 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet ahve I 

am; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of 

the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the 

year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the 

violet's here. 

II. 
O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 

skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 

cannot rise, 



CONCLUSION. 87 

And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowcri 

that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long 

to go. 

ni. 

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the 
blessed sun, 

And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, His will 
be done ! 

But still I think it can't be long before I find re- 
lease ; 

And that good man, the clergyman, has told me 
words of peace 

IV. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver 

hair! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 

me there ! 
O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver 

head! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my 

bed. 



He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all 

the sin. 
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One 

will let me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that 

could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for 

me. 

VI. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 

watch beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night and 

morning meet : 



88 COXCLUSION. 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your band 

in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

VII. 

AH in the wild March-momlng I heard the angels 

call; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark 

was over all ; 
rhe trees began to whisper, and the wind began to 

roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call 

my soul. 

VIII. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie 

dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer 

here; 
With ail my strength I prayed for both, and so I 

felt resigned. 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the 

wind. 

IX. 

I thought that it was fancy, and 1 listened in my 

bed, 
And then did something speak to me — ^I know not 

what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all 

my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the 

wind. 

X. 

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It*s not for 

them ; it's mme." 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it fot 

a sign. 



coNCLtrsidN. 89 

And once again it came, and close beside th 

window-bars, 
Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die 

among the stars. 

XI. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. 1 

know 
The blessed musie went that way my soul will have 

to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day, 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past 

away. 

XII. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and teU him not to 

fret; 
There's many worthier than I would make him 

happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been 

his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my 

desire of life. 

XIII. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in 

a glow ; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them 1 

know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his 

light may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands dian 

mine. 

XIV. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere thia 

day is done 
The voice that now is q)eaking may be beyond the 

Bun— 



00 THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

Forever and forever with tliose just souls and true— 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make 
we such ado ? 

XV. 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effi© 

come — 
Xo lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 

breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

I. 

" Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the 

land ; 
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land. 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cHff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

ir. 
A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
And some through wavering lights and shadowi 

broke 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 
From the inner land : far-off, three mountain-tofW, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 



THE LOTOS EATERS. 91 

Stood sunset-flushed r and, dewed with showery 

drops, 
CJp-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

III. 

The charmed sunset lingered low adown 

In the red AVest : through mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow do-wn 

Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender gahngale ; 

A land where all things always seemed the same I 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 



Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them. 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On aUen shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake. 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

V. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar, 
AVeary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; ** 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
la far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam* 



92i TfiE XOTOS-EATEKS. 



CHORIO SONG. 

1. 

There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walla 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies 
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the bliss- 
ful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep. 
And through the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs iu 
sleep. 

2. 

Why are we weighed upon with heaviness. 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress. 
While all things else have rest from weariness ? 
All things have rest : why should we toil alone, 
We only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings. 
And cease from Avanderings, 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 
" There is no joy but calm ! " 
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of 
things ? 

3. 

Lo 1 in the middle of the wood, 
The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 9S 

Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweetened with the summer light, 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted len^h of days, 

The flower ripens m its place, 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life ; ah, why 

Should Hfe all labor be ? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 

And in a httle while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. ^Vhat is it that will last ? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past 

Let us alone. AVhat pleasure can we have 

To war with evil ? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

In silence; ripen, fall and cease : 

Give us lonw rest or death, dark death or dreamfUI 



5. 
How sweet It were, hearing the downward 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber lights 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height 
To hear each other's whispered speech ; 
Eating the Lotos, day by day. 
To watch the crispin^r ripples on the beach, 
And tender-curving lines of creamy spray : 



94 THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mikl-mlnded melancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heaped over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an um of 
brass I 

6. 
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath suffered change ; 
For surely now our household hearths are cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes, over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sing3 
Before them of the ten-years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile : 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-staML 

7. 
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly. 
How sweet (wliile warm airs lull us, blowing lowly,) 
With half-dropt eyelids still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave through the thick-twined vine— 
To watch the emerald-colored water falling 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 95 

Through many a woven acanthus- wreath divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-oil" sparkling brine, 
Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath tha 
pine. 

8. 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : 

The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone ; 

Through every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos- 
dust is blown. 

"We have had enough of action, and of motion we. 

Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the 
surge was seething free. 

Where the wallowing monster spouted his fuam- 
fountains in the sea. 

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal 
mind, 

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 

On the hills like Gods together, careless of man- 
kind. 

For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are 
hurled 

Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are 
lightly curled 

Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleam- 
ing world ; 

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted 
lands. 

Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring 
deeps and fiery sands, 

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking 
ships, and praying hands. 

But they smile, they find a music centred in a 
doleful song 

Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of 
wrong, 

Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are 
strong ; 



96 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave 

the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring 

toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and 

oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whis- 
pered— down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys 

dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toD, the 

shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave 

and oar ; 
rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander 

more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
" The Legend of Good Women" long ago 

Sung by the morning star of song, who made 
His music heard below ; 



Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill 

The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

III. 
And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 

Held me above the subject, as strong gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, though my heart. 

Brimful of those wild tales, 



A DREAM OF FAIB WOMEN. 97 



IV 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land 
I saw, wherever light illuniineth, \ 

Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand / 
The downward slope to death. 

V. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 

Peo[>lcd the hollow dark, like burning stars, 

A.nd I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, 
And trumpets blo^vn for wars ; 



A.nd clattering flints battered with clanging hoofs : 
And I saw crowds in columned sanctuaries ; 

And forms that passed at windows and on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

vn. 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Dpon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 

Lancers in ambush set ; 

vni. 
And high shrine-doors burst through with heated 
blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire 
White surf winil-scattored over sails and masts, 
And ever climbing higher ; 

IX. 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, 
Scallblds, still sheets of water, divers woes, 

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, 
And hushed seraglios. 

VOL. Z. 7 



98 A l/REAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



X. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the selt'-same way, 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level saud, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

XI. 

started once, or seemed to start, in pain, 

Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak 
As when a great thought strikes along the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

XII. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 

That bore a lady from a leaguered town ; 
And then, I know not how, 

XIII. 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought 
Streamed onAvard, lost their edges, and did creep 

Rolled on each other, rounded, smoothed, and 
brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

XIV. 

At last methought that I had wandered far 

In an old wood : fresh-washed in coolest dew, ) 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

XV. 

Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest 
green, 
New from its silken sheatL 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 9^ 



XVI. 

The dim red morn had died, ber journey done, 
And with dead hps smiled at the twilight plain, 

Half-fallen across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 

XVII. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

XVIII. 

As that wide forest Growths of jasmine turned 
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, 

And at the root through lush green grasses burned 
The red anemone. 



I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the lanfmid dawn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drenched in 
dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

XX. 

The smcU of violets, hidden in the green. 

Poured back into my empty soul and frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

XXI. 

And from within me a clear under-tone 

Thrilled through mine ears in that unblissfui 
chme, 

** Pass freely through I the wood is all thine own, 
Until the end of time." 



100 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEX. 

XXIL 

At length I saw a lady witliin call, 

Stiller than chiselled marble, standing there ; 
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most ulvinely fair. 

XXIII. 

Her loveliness with shame and with suqmse 

Froze my swift speech ; she turning on my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

XXIV. 

" I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 
1 brought calamity." 

XXV. 

" No marvel, sovereign lady ! in fair field, 
Myself for such a face had boldly died,** 

I answered free, and turning I appealed 
To one that stood beside. 

XXVI. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, 

To her full height her stiitely stature draws; 

" My }outh," she said, " was blasted with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

XXVII. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 

"Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears 

My father held his hand upon liis face : 
I, blinded with my tears, 

XXVIII. 

* Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sigbf 
Ab in a dream. Dimly I could descry 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEW. lOi 

The stem black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 

XXIX. 

" The high masts flickered as they lay afloat ; 

The crowds, the temples, wavered, and th« 
shore ; 
The bright death quivered at the victim's throat; 

Touched ; aud I knew no more." 

XXX. 

Whereto the other with a downward brow : 

" I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam, 

Whirled by the wind, had rolled me deep below, 
Then when I left my home.'* 

XXXI. 

Her slow full words sank through the silence drear 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : 

Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

xxxir. 
I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 

One sitting on a crimson scarf unrolled ; 
A queen with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, 

Brow-bound with burninjj gold. 

XXXIII, 

She, flashing forth a haught)' smile, began : 

" I governed men by change, and so I swayed 

All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man. 
Once, like *hQ moon, I made 

XXXIV. 

** The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 

I Live no men to govern in this wood . 
That makes my only woe. 



102 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEW. 

XXXV. 

** Nay — ^j^ct it chafes me that I could not bend 

One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine cyo 

That dull cold-blooded Cajsar. Prithee, friend. 
Where is Mark Antony ? 

XXXVI. 

" The man my lover, with whom I rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : 

The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 



** We drank the Lybian Sun to sleep, and lit 

Lamps which outburned Canopus. O my life 

In E;r}l)t ! O the dalliance and the wit, 
The flattery and the strife, 

XXXVIII. 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from vrar*s alarms, 
My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 

My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, 
Contented there to die ! 

XXXIX. 

** And there he died ; and when I heard my name 
Sighed forth with life I would not brook my feai 

Of the other : with a worm I balked his fame. 
What else was lefl ? — look here ! " 

XL. • 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polished argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh. 
Showing the aspick's bite :) 

XLI. 

** I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows. 



A DREAM OF PAIB WOMEN. 103 

A. name forever I — ^lying robed and crowned, 
AVortliy a Roman spouse." 

XLII. 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance 

From tone to tone, and glided through all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

XLTII. 

When she made pause I knew not for delight ; 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs and filled with hght 

The interval of sound. 

XLIV. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of captains and of kings. 

XLV. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 

A noise of some one coming through the lawn, 

And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 



" The torrent brooks of hallowed Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

Sound all night long, in falling through the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 



" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams 
divine : 
All night the splintered crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine." 



104 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMtSf, 



XLVin. 

As one that muscth wliere broad sunshine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, through the door 

HeariniT the holy organ rolling waves 
of sound on roof and floor 

XLIX. 

Within, and anthem sung, is charmed and tied 

To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow 

Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

L. 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 

From ISIizpeh's towered gate with welcome light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

L7. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count 
of crimes 
With that wild oath.'* She rendered answei 
high : 
** Not so, nor once alone ; a tho»*?and times 
I would be born and die. 

LII. 

** Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipss beneath, 

Feeding the tlower : but ere my flow?r to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 



*My God, my land, my father — these did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, 

Lowered softly with a threefold cord of lovo 
Down to a silent grave. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 105 

LIV. 

"And I went mourning, ' No fair Hebrew hoy 
Shall smile away my maiilcn blame among 

The Hebrew mothers,' — emptied of all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song. 

LV. 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far beJow, 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

LVI. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 
Or, from the darkened glen. 



" Saw God di^^de the night with flying flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard Illm, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

Lviir. 
»* When the next moon was rolled into the sky,^ 

Strength came to me that equalled my deslrei 
How beautiful a thing it was to die 

For God and for my sire ! 

LIX. 

"It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will ; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 



" Moreover, it is written that ray ract 

Hewed Ammon, hip and tliigh, from Aox)er 



106 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEX. 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glowed, as I looked at her. 

LXI. 

She locked her lips : she left me where I stood ; 

" Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. 

Toward the morning-star. 



Losing her carol I stood pensively, 

As one that from a casement leans his head, 
When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, 

And the old year is dead. 

LXIII. 

** Alas ! alas I " a low Toice, full of care, 

Murmured beside me ; " Turn and look on me 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, 
If what I was I be. 

LXIV. 

•* Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor 
O me ! that I should ever see the light I 

Those dragon eyes of angered Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 

LXV. 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : 
To whom the Egyptian : " O, you tamely died 

You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust 
The dagger through her side." 

LXVI. 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping 
beams, 

Stolen to my brain, dissolved the mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 

Euled in the eastern sky. 



A DBEAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 107 



LXVII. 

Mom broadened on the borders of the dark, 

Ere I saw her who clasped in her last trance 

Her murdered father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

LXVIII. 

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

LXIX. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glhnpses, movinc up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

LXX. 

Each little sound and sight. "With what dull pain 
Compassed, how eagerly I sought to strike 

Into that wondrous track of dreams again 1 
But no two dreams are like. 

LXXI. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest. 
Desiring what is mingled with past years, 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

LXXII. 

Because all words, though culled with choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, 

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



108 MAItOARET. 



MARGARET. 

O SWKET pale Margaret, 

O rare pale IMargarct, 

What lit your eyes with tearful power, 

Like mooiiHght on a falling shower ? 

Who lent you, love, your mort^il dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 

Your melancholy, sweet and frail 
As peHume of the cuckoo-llower ? 
From the west ward- winding Hood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have won 
A tearful grace, as though you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 

The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek. 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
Moving through a fleecy night. 

You love, remaining peacefully. 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea. 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, ahvay 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright: 

Lulled echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
Float by }ou on the verge, of night. 

What can it matter, ^Lirgaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 



MARGARET. 109 

Tlie lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking through his prison bars? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
The last wild thought of Chatclet, 
Just ere tlic falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so well ? 

A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touched with a somewhat darker hue, 

And less aerially blue. 

But ever trembling through the dew 
Of dainty- woful sympathies. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale ISIargaret, 

Come down, come down, and hear me speak 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 
Tlie sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And laiut, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving, in the leavy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 

\Vhere all day long you sit between 

Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 
Upon me through the jasmine-leaves. 



no THB BLACKBIBD. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackptrd ! sing me sometliinj^ well: 
While all the neighbors shoot thee round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 

Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwcU. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : 
The unnetted blackhearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden walL 

Yet, though I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still. 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody* 
That made thee famous once, when young: 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse^ 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
^Vhile yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THB DEATH OP THE OLD YEAR. Ill 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 

I. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing: 
Toll ye tlie chtircliTbell sad and slow, 
And treail softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you must not die ; 

You came to us so readily, 

You lived with us so steadily. 

Old year, you shall not die. 

II. 
He lieth still : he doth not move : 
He will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love 
And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year, you must not go ; 

So long as you have been with us. 

Such joy as you have seen with us, 

Old year, you shall not go. 

III. 
He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But though his eyes are waxing dim. 
And though his foes speak ill of him. 
He was a fi-iend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We tlid so laugh and cry Avith you, 

I've half a mind to die with you, 

Old year, if you must die. 

IV. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips ar«i o'er. 



112 TO J. B. 

To see liim die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Kvery one Ibi* his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend, 

And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend 

Comes up to take his own. 

V. 
riow hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light bums low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

VI. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

Tliero's a new foot on the floor, my friend. 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

I. 

The wind, thai toeats the mountain, blows 
More softly round the open wold, 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 



A 



TO J. 8. 113 

II. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 

Or else I had not dared to ilow 
In these words toward you, and invade 

Even with a verse your holy woe. 

III. 
Tis strange that those we lean on most, 

Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, 
Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 



God gives us love. Something to love 

He lends us ; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls ofT, and love is left alone. 

V. 

This is the curse of time. Alas I 
In grief I am not all unlearned ; 

Once through mine own doors Death did ps 
One went, who never hath returned. 



SEe will not smile — not speak to me 

Once more. Two years his chair is 

Jlmpty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

VII. 

Your loss is rarer j for this star 

llose with you through a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wandered far, 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

VIII. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor, and his li\'ing worth ; 

VOL. I. 8 



114 TO J. s 

A man more pure and bold and just 
AVas never born into the earth. 

IX. 

I have not looked upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fallen asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

X. 

And though my own eyes fill with dew, 

Drawn from the spirit through the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

" AVeep, weeping duUs the inward pain," 

XI. 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She lovcth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 



I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind ; " 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

XIII. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun. 

And dwells in heaven half the night 

XIV. 

Vain solace I Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat 

Her voice seemed distant, and a tear 
Dix)pt on the letters as I wrote. 



THOUGH ILL AT EASE. 115 



[ wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you anyway, 

Who niiss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

XVI. 

For he too was a fnend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

XVII. 

Words weaker than your ffrief would make 
Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in peace : 

XVIII. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul. 
While the stars burn, the moons increase, 

And the great ages onward rolL 

XIX. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



-YOU ASK ME, WHY, THOUGH ILL 
AT EASE." 

Tou ask me, why, though ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist. 

And languish for the purple seas ? 



116 FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 

The land where, girt with friends or foea 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

\ land of just and old renown, 

'^here Freedom broadens slowly down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 
But by, degrees to fulness wrought, 
The stiJcngth of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual i*. ' ?om mute ; 

Though Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Though every channel of the State 

Should almost choke with golde*sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



♦»0F OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE 
HEIGHTS." 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 

The thunders breaking at her feet : 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet 



LOVE THOU THY LAXD. 11» 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gathered in lier prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down through town and. field 
To mingle with the human race.. 

And part by part to men revealed ■/ 
The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 

AVho, God-like, grasps the trip'C forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetrd youth 

Keep dry their h<^' •. rom tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine. 

Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



LOVE THOU THY LAND, WITH LOVE 
FAR BROUGHT." 

Love thou thy land, with love fir brought 
From out the storied .Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfu.sed 

Through future time by power of thought. 

Ti-ue love turned round on fixed poles, 
Love that endures not sordid ends. 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 



118 LOVE THOU THY LAN1>. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor Iced with crude imajjinings 
The herd, wild hearts and I'ecble wings, 

That every sophister can Ume. 

Dehver not the tasks of might 

To Aveakness, neitlier hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait ibr day, 

Though sitting girt Avith doubtful hght. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald. Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the years : 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain: 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 

Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watchwords overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw : 
Not mastered by some modern term ; 
Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : 

And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

AV^ith Life, that, >vorking strongly, binds— 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and waiin, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Through many agents making Hti^ong, 

Matures the individual form. 



i 



LOVE THOU THY LAND 119 

Meet is it changes should control 

Our being, lest we rust in ease. 

We all are changed by still degrees, 
All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its ollice, moved with sympathy. 

A saying hard to shape in act ; 

For all the past of Time reveals 

A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 
Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Even now we hear with inward strife 

A motion toiling in the gloom — 

The Spirit of the years to come 
Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-developed strength awaits 

Completion in a painful school ; 

Phantoms of other forms of rule. 
New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour. 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly joined, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard CTadation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind : 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

Thai we are wiaer than our sires. 



IJ© THE GOOSE. 

O yet, if Nature's evil star 
Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Principles are rained in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease • 
To hold his hope through shame and guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt. 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, though dogs of Faction bay, 
Would serve his kind in deed and word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreailful need should rise, 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor we'l 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I. 
I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 

Her rags scarce held together ; 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather. 



THE GOOSE. 121 

II. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He uttered rh}'mo and reason, 
** Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, 

It is a stormy season." 



She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let tall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

IV. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbors ; 

And blessed herself, and cursed herself, 
And rested from her labors. 

V. 

And feeding high, and living soft. 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the gi'ave churchwarden doffed, 
The parson smirked and nodded. 



So sitting, served by man and maid, 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid. 
It clacked and cackled louder. 

VII. 
It cluttered here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirred the old Avife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair. 

And hurled the pan and kettle. 

VIII. 

** A quinsy choke thy cursed note I ** 
Then waxed her anger stronger. 



122 THE GOOSE. 

" Go, take the goose, and -wring her throat, 
1 will not bear it longer." 



Then yelped the cur, and yawled the cat ; 

Han Gairer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose Hew this way and flew that, 

And filled the house -with clamor. 

X. 

As head and heels upon the floor 
They floundered all together, 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather : 

XI. 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He uttered words of scorning ; 

*• So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

XII. 

The wild wind rang from park and plain. 
And round the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danced again, 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

XIII. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind cleared the larder ; 

XIV. 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, " The Devil take 5ie goose. 
And Gud forgot tlie stranger 1 *^ 



THE EPIC. 123 



THE EPIC. 

At Francis Allen's on the Christraas-eve, — 
The game of forfeits done — the girls all kissed 
Beneath the sacred bush and past away — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
The host and 1, sat round the wassail-bowl, 
Then half-way ebbed : and there we held a talk. 
How all the old honor had from Christmas gone, 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games 
In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out 
AVith cutting eights that day upon the pond, 
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, 
I bumped the ice into three several stars, 
Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, 
Now harping on the church-commissioners. 
Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 
Until I woke, and found him settled down 
Upon the general decay of faith 
Right through the world — " at home was little left, 
And none abroad : there was no anchor, none, 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 
On Evcrard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." 
" And 1," quoth Everard, " by the wassail-bowl.** 
" Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way 
At college : but another which you had, 
I mean of verse, (for so we held it then,) 
What came of that '? " " You know," said Frank, 

" he burnt 
His epic of King Arthur, some twelve books " — 
And then to me demanding why ? " O, sir, 
lie thought that nothing new was said, or elsft 
Something so said 'tAvas notliing — that a truth 
Looki fi'cshest in the fashion of the day : 
God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. 
It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," said EEall, 
• Why take the style of those hcToic times V 



124 MORTE D*ARTHUR. 

For nature brings not back the Mastodcn, 
Nor we those times ; and why should any man 
Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine 
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing worth, 
Mere chalF and draff, much better burnt." " But I,** 
Said Francis, " picked the eleventh from this hearth, 
And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 
He laughed, and I, though sleepy, like a horse 
That hears the corn-bin open, pricked my ears; 
For I remembered Everard's college fame 
When we were Freshmen : then at my request 
He brought it ; and the poet, little urged, 
But with some prelude of disparagement, 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle rolled 

Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur : then, because liis wound was deep. 

The bold Sir Bedlvere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross. 

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
•' The secjuel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deedSf 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 12ft 

Walking about the gardens and the halls 

Of Camelot, as in the days that -were. 

I perish by this people which I made, — 

Though Merhn sware that I should come again 

To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 

I am so deeply smitten through the helm 

That without help I cannot last till morn. 

Thou therefore, take my brand Excalibur, 

Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 

In those old days, one summer noon, an aim 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

Holding the sword — and how I rowed across 

And took it, and have worn it, like a king : 

And, wheresoever I am sung or told 

In aftertime this also shall be known : 

But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle meer : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me •word.** 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
•' It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy host will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and hghtly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept. 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping dowt 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of tlie lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the Avinter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 



126 MORTE D'aRTHUR. 

That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood 
This way and that dividing tlic swift mind, 
In act to throw ; but at the last it seemed 
Better to leave Excalibur concealed 
There in the many-knotted watertlags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake Iving Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 

Hast thou performed my mission wliich I gave T 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale. 
" Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy namCi 
Not rendering true answer, as beseemed 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had followed, either hand 
Or voice, or else a motion of the meer. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.** 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; 
But when he saw the Avonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smoto 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one Avorthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many mer. 
What good should follow this, if this were done ? 
What harm, undone V deep harm to disobey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it Avell to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The king is sick, and knows not Avhat he docs. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 127 

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 

And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept, 

Stored in some treasure-house of miirlity kings, 

Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 

Sa}'ing, * King Arthur's sword, ExcaHbur, 

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 

So might some old man speak in the aftertime 

To all the people, winning reverence. 

But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
" "What is it thou hast seen V or what liast heard ? 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedlvere: 
**I heard '"he water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.** 

To whom replied Kin^ Arthur, much in wrath : 
*' Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unk nightly, traitor-hearted ! AVoe is me 1 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widowed of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
A.nd the third time may prosper, get thee hence: 
But, if thou spare to lling Excalibur, 
( will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutched the sword, 
And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 



128 MORTE d' ARTHUR. 

And flasMng round and round, and whirled In av 

arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the meer. 
And lightly went the other to the Iving. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen I '* 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not though I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheehng him ; 
But when I looked again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the meer." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard 
'* My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
A.nd bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half roso, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
ind looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
Is in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
iS,emorsefully regarded through his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore hun through the place of tombs 



MORTE D* ARTHUR. 129 

But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard 
l^ike one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sighed the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, " Quick, 

quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the otlicr swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Iiefore. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cUtF clanged round hun, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saAv they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and fi-om them 

rose 
A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
Then murmured Arthur, " Place me in the barge. 
And to the barge they came. There those three 

Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the I^ng, and 

wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed hi. 

hands, 

VOL. J 9 



130 MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

And called liim by his name, cohiplainlng loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and Hke the withered moon 
Smote by the fi-esh beam of the spi-lnging east ; 
And all his gi'eaves and cuisses dashed with ch-ops 
Of onset : and the llglit and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parched with 

dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed hii 

lips. 
So like a shattered column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companiouless. 
And the days darken round me, and the year-s. 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answered Arthur fi'om the barge : 
" The old order changoth, yielding ])lace to new, 
And God fulfds himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should con-upt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May lie Avithin himself make pure 1 but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 



i 



MOSTB P'AHTHUB. 131 

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought bj 

prayer 
Than this world dreams of. "Wherefore, let thy 

voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better tlian sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind lite within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them 

friend V 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island- valley of Avilion ; 
"Where fills not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan, 
That, fluting a wild carol, ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
Ami on the meer the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long 
Had winked and threatened darkness, flared and 

fell; 
At which tlie Parson, sent to sleep with sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " but wo 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 



132 THE gardener's daughter; 

Redeemed it from the charge of nothingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work j 
I know not : but we sitting, as I said, 
The coi.-k crow loud : as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
" There now — that's nothing ! " drew a little back, 
And drove his heel into the smouldered log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the Hue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seemed 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point, till on to dawn, Avlien dreama 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. 
To me, methought, who Avaited with a crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people ciied, 
" Arthur is come again : he cannot cUe." 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated — " Come again, and thrice as fair;" 
And, further inland, voices echoed — *' Come 
With all good things, and war shall be no more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal. 
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed 
The clear church-bells riu^i; in the Christmas morn 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER, 

OB, 

THE PICTURES. 

Tnis morning is the morning of the day 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter ; I and he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete 
Portioned in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 



OR, THE PICTURES. 133 

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ; 
So muscular he spread, so bi'oad a breast. 
lie, by some law that liolds in love, and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A cci'tain miraele of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveHness, all grace 
Sunmied up and closed in little; — Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so hght of sj)irit — oli, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moou3, 
The summer ])ilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Is^now you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
^ AVhen will you paint like this ? " and I replied, 
(i\Iy words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
*' "Tis not your work, but Love's. Love unper- 

ceived. 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of March.** 
And Juliet answered laughing, " Go and see 
The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after that, 
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece.** 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News irom the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting mufiled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy elanging of the minster clock ; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, washed by a slow broad stream, 
That, stii-red with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crowned with the minster-towers. 



134 THE gardener's DAUGHTER ] 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-uddered kiiie, 
And all about the large lime feathers low, 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself, 
Grew, seUlom seen : not less among us lived 
Her fimc from lip to lij). ^Vho had not heard 
Of Hose, the Gardener's daughter '? Where waa 

he, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in grief, 
That, having seen, forgot ? The common moutli, 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
"Would play with flying forms and images, 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I looked upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart. 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, 
Born out of every tiling I heard and saw, 
Fluttered about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, Uke fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream 
Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 

And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares. 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of Heaven was pura 
Up to the Sun, and ^Lay from verge to vei'ge, 
And May with me from liead to heel. And now. 
As though 'twere yesterday, as though it were 



OR, THE PICTURES. 135 

The hour just flown, that mom with all its sound, 

(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 

Rin<is in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, 

And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, 

Leaning his horns into the neighbor lield, 

And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 

Came voices of the well-contented doves. 

The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, 

Bat shook his song together as he neared 

His happy home, the ground. To Icll and right, 

The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; 

The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 

The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale 

Sang loud, as though he were the bird of day. 

And Eustace turned, and smiling said to me, 
" Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they 

sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 
Or have they any sense of Avhy they sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens for what they 

have ? " 
And I made answer, " Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but only love, 
That only love were cause enough for praise." 

Lightly he laughed, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went; but ere an hour had passed, 
"We reached a meadow slanting to the North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge 5 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Through crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we entered in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread his dark -green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scattered silver lights. 

" Eustace," J said, " this wonder keeps the house.*" 



136 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; 

He nodded, but a moment afterwards 

He cried, "Look! lookl" Before he ceased 7 

turned. 
And, ere a star can -wink, behekl lier there. 

For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, 
That, iloweriuo; high, the last night's gale had caughi 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloCt — 
Gowned in ]»ure white, tliat fitted to the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all iier soft brown hair 
Poured on one side : the shadow of the (lowera 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering, 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade ! — and still went wavering down 
But, ere it touched a foot that might have danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mixed with shadows of the common ground 1 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunned 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips, 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we neared the house ; but she, a Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turned 
Into the world without ; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent, 
TJiis murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her : 

" Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingei-s culled, 
Were worth a hundred kisses pressed on lips 
Less cxrjuisite than thine ! " 

She looked : but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-possessed 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused. 
And di'opt the branch she held, and turning, wound 



OR, THE PICTURES. 137 

Her looser liair in braid, and stirred her lips 
For some sweet answer, though no answer came ; 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like, 
In act to render thanks. 

I, tliat whole day, 
Saw her no more, although I lingered there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beamed through the thickened cedar in the dusk. 

So home we went," and all the livelong way 
With solenni gibe did Eustace banter me. 
*' Now," said he, " will you climb the top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juhet V you, not you, — the Master, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That gi-aced the gi^^ng — such a noise of life 
Swarmed in the golden present, such a voice 
Called to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rlnuned the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchmen peal 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded Avings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 

Love at first sight, first-born and l\eir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall noj 

storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk. 
To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping ehu ; and more and more 



138 THE GARDENEll'S DAUGHTER; 

A -word could hrin<r the color to my cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and Avith each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, throujih that still garden passed : 
Each garlanded with her peculiar llower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade ; 
And each in passing touched with some new 

grace 
Or seemed to touch her, so that day by day, 
Like one that never can be wholly known, 
Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep " I will," 
Breathed, lilce the covenant of a God, to hold 
From thence through all the worlds : but I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes, 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reached 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 

There sat we down upon a garden mound. 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third. 
Between us, in the circle of liis arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Revealed their shining windows : from them clashed 
The bells ; we listened ; with the time we played , 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

Then, in thijt time and place, I spoke to her, 
Requiring, though I knew it was mine own. 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; 
And in that time and place she answered me, 
And in the compass of three httle words, 
More musical than ever came in one. 



d 



OR, THE PICTURES. 18* 

The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering " I am thine ! " 

Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say 
Tliat my desire, like all strongest hopes, 
By its own energy fuUilled itself, 
Merged in completion ? AVould you learn at full 
How passion rose through circumstantial grades 
Beyond all grades developed ? and indeed 
I had not stayed so long to tell you all, 
But while I mused came Memory Avith sad eyes, 
Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 
And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, 
And with a flying finger swept my hps, 
And spake, " Be wise : not easily forgiven 
Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 
Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. 

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 
Of that which came betAvcen, more sweet than each, 
In whispers, hke the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplexed for utterance, 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, 
And vows, where there was never need of vows, 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sowed all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars ; 
Or Avliile the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, 
Spread the light haze along the river-shores, 
And in the hollows ; or as once we met 
Unheedful, though beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, 
And in her bosom bore the baby. Sleep. 

But this Avhole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that veiled picture — veiled, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
Thia prelude has prepai-ed thee. Raise tiiy soul, 



140 DORA. 

Make tliinc heart ready witli tliine eyes : the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she kncAv my heart, 
My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, 
The darliiirr of my manhood, ancl, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine aga. 



DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. AVilliam was his son, 
And she his niece. He often looked at them. 
And often thought " I'll make them man and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's Avill in all, 
And yearned towards WilHam ; but the youth, be- 
cause 
He had been always with her in the house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan called his son, and said : " My son, 
I married late, but I would Avish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His (laughter Dora : take her for your Avife ; 
For I have Avished this marriage, niglit and day, 
For many years." But AV^lUiam answered short; 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was Avroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: 
" You Avill not, boy ! you dare to ansAver thus] 
But in my time a father's Avord Avas law, 



DORA. 141 

And so it shall be now for mc. Look to*t ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack. 
And nevermore darken my doors auvain ! " 
But AVilliam answered madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he looked at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh , 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to woi'k within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he Avooed and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan calltMj 
His niece and said : '' My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To "Wilham ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he passed his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest-time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. J\Lary sat 
And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: 
" I have obeyed my uncle until now, 
And 1 have sinned, for it was all through me 
This evil came on AVilliam at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these five years 
So full a liarvest : let me take the boy, 



142 DORA. 

And I wUl set him in my uncle's eye 

Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 

Of the full harvest, he may sec the boy, 

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.** 

And Dura took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart failed her ; and the reapers reaped, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round liis hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer passed into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
Aiid came and said : "Wliere were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ?" 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answered softly : " This is William's child 1 ** 
" And did 1 not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
" Do with me as you will, but take the cliild 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone I* 
And Allan said : " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew mv word was law, and yet vou dared 
To sliglit it. 'Well— for I will take the boy; 
But go- you hence, and never sec me more/' 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wi-cath of ilowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
More and more distant. She bowed down her Lead, 



DORA. 143 

Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bowed dowD 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reaped, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to jNIary's house, and stood 
Upon the thresliold. ]\Iary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that helped her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said : " j\Iy uncle took tlie boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with }'ou : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answered INlary : " This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself. 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house, 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kissed 
Each other, and set out and reached the farm. 
The door was off the latch ; they peeped and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks. 
Like one that loved him : and the lad stretched on\ 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the lire. 
Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan sat him down, and ]\Iary said : 

" O Father I — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : tal?e her back ; she loves you welL 
O Sir, when William died, he died at peace 



144 DUDLEY COURT. 

With all men ; for I asked him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me.— - 
1 had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said 
Tliat he was wrongj to cross his father thus : 
» (;od bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never kno-w 
The ti-oubles I have gone through ! ' Then he turned 
His lace and passed — unhappy that I am ! 
But now, Sir, let mo liavc my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he'wiiriearn to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So INIary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs • — 

*' I have been to blame — to blame 1 I have killed 
my son ! 
I have killed him — but I loved him — my dear son I 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children ! " 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundred fold ; 
And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child, 
Thinking of WilHam. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

" The Bull, the Fleece are crammed, and not a 

room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Audley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 



AUDLEY COURT. 145 

Hummed like a hive all round the narrow quay, 

To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 

To Francis just ali;i;hted I'rom the boat. 

And breathing of the sea. " AV'ith all my heart." 

Said Francis. Then we shouldered through the 

swarm 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 

We left the dying ebb that faintly lipped 
The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reached 
The gri (tin-guarded gates, and passed through all 
The pillared dusk of sounding sycamores. 
And crossed the garden to the gardener's lodge, 
With all its casements bedded, and its walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 

There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, 
^Vhere.quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats. 
Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat 
And talked old matters over : who was dead, 
Who married, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who would rent the hall : 
Then touched upon the game, how scarce it was 
This season : glancing thence, discussed the farm, 
The fourficld S}'stem and the price of grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where Ave split, 
And came again togetlier on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laughed aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung 
To hear him, chipt his hand in mine and sang — 

" O ! who would fight and march and counter- 
march, ^ 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 

VOL. I. 10 



146 AUDLET OOUBT. 

And shovelled up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live my life. 

" O ! who would cast and balance at a desk, 
Perched like a crow upon a three-legged stool, 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Ai'e full of chalk ? but let me live my life. 

" Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved my name 
Upon the clilfs that guard my native land, 
I might as well have traced it in the sands ; 
The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. 

" O ! who would love ? I wooed a woman once, 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind. 
And all my heart turned from her, as a thorn 
Turns from the sea : but let me live my life.'* 

He sang his song, and I replied with mine : 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knocked down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — and this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 

" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm. 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 

" Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her 
breast : 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 

" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." 

So sang we each to cither, Francis Hale, 
The farmer's son who lived across the bay, 
My friend ; and I, that having wherewithal, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and everywhere, 
Did what 1 would ; but ere the night we rose 
And sauntered home beneath a moon, that, just 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 147 

In crescent, dimly rained about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reached 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, 
The town was hushed beneath us : lower down 
The bay was oily calm ; the harbor-buoy 
With one green sparkle ever' and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I'm glad I walked. How fresh the meadowi 
look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago. 
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. 
Is yon plantation where thi^ by-way joins 
The turnpike ? 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by ? 
James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 

John. AVhat is it now ? 
James. A quarter to. 

John. WTiose house is that I see 
Beyond the watermills ? 

James. Sir Edward Head's : 
But he's abroad : the place is to be sold. 
John. O, his. He was not broken. 

James. No sir, he, 
Vexed w^ith a morbid devil in his blood 
TTiat veiled the world with jaundice, hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home, went overseas for change. 
John. And whither V 

James. Nay, who knows ? he's here and 
there. 



148 WAX.KING TO THE MAIL. 

But let liim go ; his devil goes with him, 
As Avcll as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 

John. What's that ? 

Ja/uea. You saw tlie man — on Monday, was it ? 
Thei-e by the humpbacked wullow ; lialf stands up 
And bristles; halt" has fallen and made a bridge; 
And there he caught the younkcr tickling trout — 
Caught in Jlarji-ante — what's the Latin word ? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say. 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant stayed : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, 
And all his household stulf; and with his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt. 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, " What 
You're Hitting ! " " Yes, we're Hitting," says the ghost, 
(For they had packed the thing among the beds.) 
*' O well," says he, " you flitting with us too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." 

John. He left his wife behind ; lor so I heard. 

James. lie left her, yes. I met my lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 

John. O yet but I remember, ten years back— 
*Tis now at least ten years — and then she was-^ 
You could not light upon a sweeter thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it flowers. 

James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that 
loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager. 
Out of her splicre. AVHiat betwixt shame and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, she soured 
To what she is : a nature never kintl ! 
Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they saj 
Kind nature is the best : those manners next 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 149 

That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Wliich are indeed the manners of the cjreat. 

John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, 
And fear of chani]re at home, tliat drove him hence 

James. That was the last di-op in the cup ol' gaila 
I once was near him wlien his baililF brouii;!it 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince 
As from a venomous thini^: he thought himself 
A mark for all, and shuddered, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes 
Should sec the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs 
Sweat on his blazoned chairs ; but, sir, you know 
That these two parties still divide the world — 
Of those that want, and those that have : and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age to age 
With much the same result. Now 1 mj'self, 
A Tory to the quick, Avas as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 
I was at school — a college in the South : 
Ihere lived a tiayllint near; we stole his fruit, 
His hens, his e^gs; but there was law for us ; 
Wq paid in person. lie had a sow, sir. She, 
^V'ith meditative grunts of much content, 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. 
By night we dragged her to the college toAver 
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair 
With hand and rope Ave haled the groaning sow, 
And on the leads Ave kept her till she pigged. 
Large range of prospect had the mother sow, 
And but lor daily loss of one she loved, 
Aa one by one Ave took them — but for this — 
As ncA'er soav Avas higher in tliis AA-orld— 
Might liaA'e been happy: but Avhat lot is pure? 
We took them all, till she Avas left alone 
Upon her toAvcr, the Xiobe of SAA'ine, 
And so returned unfarroAved to her sty. 

John. They Ibund you out ? 
James. Not they. 

John. Well — after all — 
What know we of the secret of a mau ? 



150 WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

His Lerves were wrong. What ails us, who are 

s.;und, 
Tliat '^c should mimic this raw fool the world, 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than will 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes 
With five at top : as (quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three pyebalds and a roan. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

ALTnouGn I be the basest of mankind, 
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn and sob, 
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. 

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs. 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold. 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and 

cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, 
Patient on this t^Ul pillar I have borne [snow; 

Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and 
And I had hoped that ere this ])eriod closed 
Thou would.st have caught me up into thy rest, 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the wliite robe and the palm. 

O take the meaning. Lord : I do not breathe. 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heaped teu-huudred-fold to this, were still 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 151 

Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, 
Than -were those lead-like tons of sin, that crushed 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Ttprd, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, 
For I was strong and hale of body then ; 
And though my teeth, which now are dropt away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard 
Was tagged with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drowned the whoopings of the owl with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown : my end draws nigh — 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind, 
And scarce can recognize the fields I know. 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew. 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry. 
While my stilT spine can hold my weary head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul. 
Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? 
Show me the man hath suffered more than L 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified, 
Or burned in fire, or boiled in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, oh my God ! 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore : but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there. 



152 ST. SIMEON 8TYLITE9. 

For many weeks about ray loins I wore 

The rope tliat haled the backet.s from the well, 

Twisted as ti^^ht as I could knot the noose; 

And spake not of it to a sinirlo soul. 

Until the ulcer, catinir through my skin, 

Betrayed my secret penance, so that all 

My brethren marvelled greatly. ^Rlore than this 

1 bore, whereof, oh God, thou knowest all. 

Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, 
J lived up there on yonder mountain side. 
My right leg chained into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice 
Blacked with thy branding thunder, and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, 
Except the spare chance-gift of tljcse that came 
To touch my body and be healed, and live : 
And they say then that I Avorked miracles. 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, 
Cui-ed lameness, p?Jsies, cancers. Thou, oh God. 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin ! 

Then, that I might be more alone with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve; 
And twice three years I crouched on one that rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew 
Twice ten long weary, weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 

I think that I have borne as much as thia— 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light, 
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well. 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
^ Fall down, oh Simeon : thou hast sulfered long 
For ages and for ages ! " Then they prate 
Of peuaaces I cannot have gone through, 



d 



ST. SIMEON 8TTLITES. 15^ 

Perplexing me with lies ; anrl oft I fall, 
Maybe for months, in such blin'l Ictharnnes, 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and m»*n on earth 
House in the shade of comibrtable roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, 
And wear wai-m clothes, and even beasts have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light. 
Bow down one thousand and two hundi'cd times, 
To Christ, the Virgin ISIother, and the Saints ; 
Or in the night, after a Uttle sleep, 
I wake : the chill stai*s sparkle ; I am wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff wi<;h crackling frost. 
I wear an undressed goatskin on my back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : 

mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin ! 

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin ; 
*Tis their own doing ; this is none of mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, 
That here come those that Avorship me ? Ha ! ha 1 
They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint. 
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers ; 
And I, in truth (thou Avilt bear witness here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and more 
Than many just and holy men, whose names 
Are registered and calendered for saints. 

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this ? 

1 am a sinner viler than you all. 

It may be I have wrought some miracles. 

And cured some halt and maimed ; but what of that ? 

It may be, no one, even among the saints, 

Maj match bis pains with miae ; but what of that ? 



154 BT. SIMEON 8TYLITES. 

Yet do not rise : for you may look on me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to God. 
Speak ! is there any of you halt or maimed V 
I think you know I have some power with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak his wish. 

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from ma 
They say that they arc healed. Ah, hark I they 

shout 
'* St. Simeon Stylites." "VVhy, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. K this be, 
Can J work miracles and not be saved ? 
Tliis is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crowned a saint. They shout, "Behold a 

saint ! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that God hatb 

now 
Sponged and made blank of crlmefid record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
T, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
ShoAved like fiir seraphs. On the coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils plucked my sleeve; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
[ smote them with the cross ; they swarmed again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they crushed my chest 
They flapped my light out as I reM : I saw 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 155 

Tlieir faces grow between me and my book : 
With colt-like wlilnny and with hoggish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was Icil, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. INIortity 
Your llesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns , 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. Jf it may be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps— 
With slow, faint steps, and much exceetUng pain- 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise : 
God only through his bounty hath thought fit, 
Amon^ the powers and princes of this world, 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
W^hen }"0u may worship me v/ithout reproach ; 
For I will leave my reUcs in your land. 
And you may carve a shrine about my dust, 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, 
When I am gathered to the glorious saints. 

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling through me, and a cloudlike change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! 
Surely the end ! What's here ? a shape, a shade, 
V flash of light. Is that the angel there 
"hat holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, come, 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; 
My brows are ready. AVhat ! deny it now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. Sol clutch it. Christ! 
'T is gone : 'tis here again ; the crown ! the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me. 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frankin- 
cense. 
Ah ! let me not be fooled, sweet saints : I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. 



156 THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Speak. ^ there be a priest, a man of God, 
Among }\. there, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, 
And climbing ,j into my airy home, 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, oh Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy light. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES 

Slow sailed the weary mariners, and saw. 
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold ; and, while they mused, 
AVhispering to each other half in fear, 
Shrill music reached them on the middle sea. 

\Vliither away, whither away, whither away ? fly 

no more. 
\Vhither away from the high green field, and the 

happy blossoming shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls ; 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the hve-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
An(l thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea : 
O hither, come hither, and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me ! 
Hither, come hither, and frolic and play; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 



THE DESERTED HOUSB. IS? 

Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, * , 

For liere are the blissfiil downs and dal'»i<^- 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales, « 
And the spangle dances in bight aixifbay, 
And the rainbow forms and liies on the land 
Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainboAv hangs on the poising wave, 
And sAveet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be ; 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
For merry brides are we ! 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee ! 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp, clear twang of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea ! 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? 
Whither away ? listen and stay ; mariner, mariner 
fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



I. 
Life and Thought have gone away 
Sule l)y siile, 
Leaving door and windows wide 

Careless tenants they ! 

II. 
AH within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at tiie door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



158 EDWIN morris; 



in. 

Gose tLe door, the shutters close, 

Or through the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark, deserted house. 

IV. 
Come away ; no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 
The house was builded of tbe earth, 

And shall fall again to ground. 

V. 

Come away; for Life and Thought 
Here no lon^^er dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 
A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with us. 



EDWIN MORRIS; 

OR, THE LAKE. 

O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 

My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, 

My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 

Of city life ! I was a sketcher then ; 

See here, my doing : curves of mountain, bridgey 

Doat, island, ruins of a castle, built 

When men knew how to build, upon a rock. 

With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock ; 

And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, 

New-comers from tlie Mersey, millionaires. 

Here lived the Hills, — a Tudor-chimneyed bulk 

Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 



OB, THE LAKE. ' 159 

O me I my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin INlorris and with Edward Bull, 
The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he tliat knew the names, 
Long learned names of ag^aric, moss and fern, 
\\1io forged a thousand theories of the rocks, 
Who taught me liow to skate, to row, to swim. 
Who read me rliymes elaborately good. 
His own, — I called him Crichton, for he seemed 
All-perfect, finished to the finger nail. 

And once I asked him of his early Ufe, 
And his first passion ; and he answered me ; 
And well his Avords became him : was he not 
A full-celled honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke : 

" My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love for her. 
My love for Nature and my love for her, 
Of difierent ages, like twin-sisters grew. 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun, 
And some full music seemed to move and change 
With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilight and the day between ; 
For daily hope fulfilled, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to Avake, to breathe.'* 

Or this or something like to this he spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull, 

" I take it, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors that trims us up, 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways 



160 EDWIN morris; 

Seem but the theme of writers, and, indeed, 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and increase of the world." 

" Parson," said I, " you pitch the pipe too low ; 
But I have sudden touches, and can nin 
My faith beyond my practice into bis ; 
Though if, in dancing after Letty Plill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music ; yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such a dream?* 
I asked hun half-sardonically. 

"Give? 
Give all thou art," he answered, and a light 
Of laugliter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; 
" I would have hid her needle in my heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin ; my ears could hear 
Her lightest breaths ; her least remark was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and came ; 
Her voice fled always through the summer land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! 
The flower of each, those moments when we met, 
The crown of all, wc met to part no more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did ? but something jarred ; 
^Vhetile^ he spoke too largely ; that there seemed 
A touch of something false, some scli-conceit. 
Or over-smoothness; howsoe'er it was, 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : — 

" Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me. 
As in the Latin song 1 learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left ? 
But you can talk ; yours is a kindly vein ; 



OR, IHK LAKE. 161 

I have, I think, — Heaven knows, — ^as much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought or two, 
That, Uke a purple beech among the greens, 
Looks out of place ; 'tis from no want in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
Or something of a wayward modeni mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me right." 

So spoke I, knowing not the things that were, 
rhen said the fat>-faced curate, Edward Bull : 
* Grod made the woman for the use of man, 
And for the good and increase of the world." 
And I and Edwin laughed ; and now we paused 
About the windings of the marge to hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, 
My suit had withered, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and Is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rent-roU Cupid of our rainy Isles. 
*Tis true we met ; one hour I had, no more, 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, 
The close " Your Letty, only yours ; " and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of mom 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 
•My cratt aground, and heard with beating heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel ; 
And out I stept, and up I crept ; she moved. 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers ; 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she, 
She turned, we closed, we kissed, swore faith, 1 

breathed 
In some new planet ; a silent cousin stole 
Upon us and departed. " Leave," she cried, 
" O leave me ! " " Never, dearest, never ; here 

VOL. I. 11 



162 EDWIN morris; or, the lake. 

I brave tbe worst ; '* and while we stood like fools 
Embracing, aU at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yelled within, and out they came, 
Trustees and aunts and uncles. " What, with him! '* 
" Go " (shrilled the cotton-spinning chorus), " him ! ' 
I choked. Again they shrieked the burthen 

" Him ! " 
Again with hands of wild rejection, " Go ! — 
Girl, get you in 1 " She went, — and in one month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, 
To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery smUe 
And educated whisker. But for me, 
They set an ancient creditor to work : 
It seems I broke a close with force and arms ; 
There came a mystic token from the king 
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 
I read, and fled by night, and flpng turned ; 
Her taper glimmered in the lake below ; 
I turned once more, close-buttoned to the storm 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. 

Nor cared to hear ? perhaps ; yet long ago 
I have pardoned little Letty ; not indeed. 
It may be, for her own dear sake, but this, 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; 
For, in the dust and drouth of London life. 
She moves among my visions of the lake. 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the summer 3rag. 



TO . 163 

TO , 

AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 



** Cursed be he that moves my bones." 

Shakspeare-s Epitaph 



You miglit have ■won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gained a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Through troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a sDent voice ; 

And you have missed the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown ; 
Hereafter neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old. 
But round him, ere ho scarce be cold, 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

" Proclaim the faults he would not show ; 

Break lock and seal ; betray the trust ; 

Keep nothing sacred ; 'tis but just 
The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah, shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
No pubhc life was his on earth, 

No blazoned statesman he, nor king. 



164 TO E. L., ON HIS TBAVELS IN GREECE. 

He save the people of his best ; 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 

My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave 
Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The httle life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd 1 



rO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECK 

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass. 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. 
With such a pencil, such a pen. 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 

And trust me while I turned the page. 
And tracked you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever poured 

And glistened, — here and there alone 
The broad-limbed Gods at random thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oared 



THE EAGLE. 165 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 

Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 

The silver lily heaved and fell ; 
And many a slope was rich in bloom, 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, 
To him who sat upon the rocks, 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



"COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD." 

Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head. 

And vex the unhappy dust thou would'st not save 
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime, 

I care no longer, being all un blest ; 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : 
Gro by, go by. 



THE EAGLE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ringed with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



166 THE TALKING OAK. 



THE TALKING OAK 



I. 
Cnce more the gate behind me falls 

Once more before my face 
I see the mouldered Abbey-Avalls, 

That stand within the chace. 

II. 
Beyond the lodge the city lies, 

Beneath its drift of smoke ; 
And ah ! with what dehghted eyes 

I turn to yonder oak ! 

III. 
For when my passion first began, 

Ere that which in me burned, 
The love that makes me thrice a man. 

Could hope itself returned ; 

IV. 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger fiiith appealed 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

V. 

For oft I talked with him apart, 

And told him of my choice. 
Until he plagiarized a heart. 

And answered with a voice. 

VI. 

Though what he whispered under Heaven 

None else could understand ; 
I found him garrulously given, 

A babbler in the land. 



THE TALKING OAK. 167 



VII. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
Twere well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 



Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
Broad oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

IX. 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? — 



" O Walter, I have sheltered here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year, 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

XI. 

" Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 
And, issuing sliorn and sleek. 

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 



" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And numbered bead, and shrift, 

Bluff Harry broke into the spence, 
And turned the cowls adrift : 

XIII. 

" And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces, that would thrive 



168 THE TALKING OAK. 

When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 



" And all that from the town would stroll, 
Till that wild wind made work, 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork : 

XV. 

** The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays : 

XVI. 

" And I have shadowed many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 

Or while the patch was worn ; 

XVII. 

" And, leg and arm with love-knots gay 
About me leaped and laughed 

The modish Cupid of the day. 
And shrilled his tinsel shaft. 

XVIII. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

la three times worth them all ; 

XIX. 

** For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 



THE TALKING OAK. 169 

XX. 

** From when she gambolled on the greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The. maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could nmnber five from ten. 



" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, though I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

XXII. 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So Hght upon the grass : 

XXIII. 

** For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh.'* 

XXIV, 

O, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

XXV. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 
That oft hast heard my vows, 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 



" O yesterday, you know, the fair 
Was holden at the town : 



170 THE TALKING OAK. 

Her father left his good arm-chair, 
And rode his hunter down. 

XXVII. 

" And with him Albert came on hia. 

I looked at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the hoy. 

XXVIII. 

An hour had past — and, sitting straighft 
Within the low-wheeled chaise, 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

XXIX. 

" But, as for her, she stayed at home, 
And on the roof she went, 

And down the way you use to come 
She looked with discontent. 

XXX. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rose^vood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

XXXI. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice through all the holt 

Before her, a^d the park. 

XXXII. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing, 
And in the chase grew wild, 

As close as might be would he cling 
About the (krling child : 



THE TALKING OAK. 171 

XXXIII. 

<* But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touched on, dipt and rose, 

And turned to look at her. 

XXXIV. 

" And here she came, and round me played, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my * giant bole ; * 

XXXV. 

•* And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span my waist : 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 

XXXVI. 

" I wished myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each. 

She might have locked her hands. 

XXXVII. 

" Yet seemed the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold. 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The ben-ied briony fold." 

XXXVIII. 

O niuflile round thy knees with fern, 

And shadow Sumner-chace ! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sunmer-place ! 

XXXIX. 

But tell me, did she read the name 
I carved with many vows, 



172 THE TALKING OAK. 

When last with throbbing heart I came 
To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

XL. 

" O yes, she wandered round and round 
These knotted knees of mine, 

And found, and kissed the name she found, 
And sweetly murmured thine. 

XLI. 

" A tear-drop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is somethmg coarse, 
But I believe she wept, 

XLIL 

** Then flushed her cheek with rosy light, 
She glanced across the plain ; 

But not a creature was in sight : 
She kissed me once again. 

XLIIL 

** Her kisses were so close and kind, 

That, trust me on my word. 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 

But yet my sap was stirred : 

XLIV. 

** And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discerned, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turned. 

XLV. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's wa\'ing balm — 

The cushions of whose touch may presa 
The maiden's tender palm. 



THE TALKING OAK. 178 

XLVI. 

" I, rooted here among tlie groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

XL VII. 

" For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the leaf. 

Could sHp its bark and walk. 



" But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem 

Have sucked and gathered into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

XLIX. 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lio;htly issuing through, 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss 

With usury thereto." 

L. 

O flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea. 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

LI. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern. 
Old oak, I love thee well ; 

A thousand thanks for what I leam 
And what remains to tell. 



** 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; 
At last, tired out with play, 



174 THE TALKING OAK. 

She sank her head upon her arm, 
And at my feet she lay. 

LIII. 

" Her eyelids dropped their silken cavea 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Througli all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mixed with sighs. 

LIV. 

" I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife, 
And lulled them in my own, 

LV. 

" Sometunes I let a sunbeam slip. 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second fluttered round her Up 

Like a golden butterfly ; 



" A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another sUd, a sunny fleck, 
From head to ankle fine. 

LVII. 

" Then close and dark my arms I spread 

And shadowed all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head. 
An acorn in her breast. 



" But in a pet she started up, 
And plucked it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 



THE TALKING OAK. 1 7ft 



LIX. 

** And yet it was a ^aceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

LX. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He Kes beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me 1 

LXI. 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

LXII. 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further through the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 



This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

LXIV. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice. 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

LXV. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to band, 



176 THB TALKING OAK. 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

LXVI. 

May never saw dismember thee, 
Nor wielded axe disjoint ; 

That art the fairest spoken tree 
From here to Lizard-point. 



O rock upon thy towery top 
All throats that gurgle sweet I 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet I 

LXVIII. 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

LXIX. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

LXX. 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain. 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep 1 



And hear me swear a solemn oath. 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 177 



Lxxri, 

And wlien my mamafje-mom may fall, 
She, Dryad-like, shall wear 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

LXXIII. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honored beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth 

LXXIV. 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat. 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak, 



Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode. 
And hummed a surly hjTnn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 
What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts 
Or all the same as if he had not been ? 

Not so. Shall Error in the round of time 
Still father Truth ? O, shall the braggart shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself 
Through madness, hated by the wise, to law 
System and empire ? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 

vol.. I. 12 



178 LOVE AN© DUTY. 

Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? 

If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler through thy love ? 
O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
Art more through Love, and greater than thy years 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 

Will some one say, then why not ill for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a man. 

— So let me think 'tis well for thee and me— 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seemed to me. 
When eyes, love-languid through half-tears, would 

dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, 
Faltering, Avould break its syllables, to keep 
]My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash. 
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, 
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired reUef !) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weighed 
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! 

For Love himself took part against himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — 
O this world's curse — beloved but hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine. 



LOTE AND DUTY. 173 

And crying, " Who is this ? behold thy bride.** 
She pushed me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to tliee, but to thyself in me : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. 

Could love part thus ? was it not Avell to speak, 
To have spoken once ? It could not but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good, 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill. 
And all good things from evil, brought the night 
In which we sat together and alone, 
And to the want, that hollowed all the heart, 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, 
That burned upon its object through such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. 
Then followed counsel, comfort, and the words 
TTiat make a man feel strong in speaking truth ^ 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
The lights of sunset and of suni-ise mixed 
In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung 
Love-charmed to listen : all the wheels of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 

O then like those, who clench their nerves to 
rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose. 
There — closing hke an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain. 
Like bitter accusation even to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and uttered it, 
And bade adieu forever. 

Live — yet live— 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 



180 THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by 

My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts 

loo sadly for thy peace, remand it thou 

For calmer hours to INIemory's darkest hold, 

If not to be forgotten — not at once — 

Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, 

O might it come like one that looks content, 

With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 

And point thee forward to a distant light. 

Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart 

And leave thee freer, till thou wake refreshed, 

Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown 

Full quire, and morning driven her plow of pearl 

Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, 

Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales : [wrote : 
Old James was with me : we that day had been 
Up Snowdon; and I wished for Leonard there, 
And found him in Llanberis : then we crost 
Between the lakes, and clambered half way up 
The counter side ; and that same song of his 
He told me ; for I bantered him, and swore 
They said he lived shut up within himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days. 
That, setting the how much before the how^ 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse-leech, " Give, 
Cram us with all," but count not me the herd 1 

To which, " They call me what they will," he said 
"But I was born too late : the fair new forms. 
That float about the threshold of an age, 
Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher crowned-— 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 181 

But if you care indeed to listen, hear 

These measured words, my work of yestermom. 

" We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things 
move ; 
The Sun Hies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheeled in her ellipse : 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

" Ah, though the times when some new though 
can bud 
Are but as poets* seasons when they flower, 
Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their march. 
And slow and sure comes up the golden year. 

" When wealth no more shall rest in mounded 
heaps, 
But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands. 
And hght shall spread, and man be liker man 
Through aU the season of the golden year. 

" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less. 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 

" Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing havenward. 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's 
good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land. 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Through all th<; circle of the golden year ? " 

Thus far he flowed, and ended ; whereuj^on 
'* Ah, foil}' ! " in mimic cadence answered James— 
" Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, 



182 ULYSSES. 

Not m our time, nor in our children's time, 
*Tis like the second world to us that live, 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 

With that he struck his stall against the rocks 
And broke it, — .James, — you know him, — old, but 

full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourished with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

" What stuff is this ? 
Old writers pushed the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, Avhen every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip 
His hand into the bag : but well I know 
That unto him who works, and feels he works, 
This same grand year is ever at the doors." 

He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast 
The steep slate-(|uarry, and the great echo flap 
And bullet round the hills from bluff to blufi. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king. 
By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
Tliat hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me 
t cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed 
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyadea 



ULYSSES. 183 

Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honored of them all ; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peerSj 

Far on the ringing plains of "windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met ; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethroKgh 

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fade 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! 

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge, like a sinking star. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. ^My mariners, 
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought 

with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 



184 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The hghts begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs ; the 

deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my frienfJ"- 
*Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push oif, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Though much is taken, much abides ; and though 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we 

are; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tit 

early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound 

upon the bugle-horn. 

'TIS the place, and all around it, as of old, the cur- 
lews call. 

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over 
Locksley Hall ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 184 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 

sandy tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere 1 

went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 

West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the 

mellow shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver 

braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a 

youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result 

of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fi^iitful land 

reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise 

that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could 

see ; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be. 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 

Robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 

another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bur^ 

nished dove ; 
In the Spring a young man's fancy hghtly turns ts 

thoutjlits of love. 



186 LOCKSLEY HAIL. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should 

be for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute ol> 

scrvance hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the 

truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being seta 

to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and 

a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern 

night. 

And she turned — her bosom shaken with a sudden 

storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 

eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should 

do me wrong ; " 
SajHng, " Dost thou love me, cousin V " weeping, " I 

have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in 

his glowing hands ; 
JJvery moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 

sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the 

chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in 

music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 
copses ring, 

And her whisper thronged my pulses with the ful- 
ness of the Spring. 



L0CK8LEY HALL. 187 

Many an evening hj the waters did we watch the 

stately ships, 
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of 
the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine 

no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, 

barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songa 
have sung. 

Puppet to a fath'er's threat, and servile to a shrew- 
ish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — ^having known 

me — to decline 
On a range of lower feehngs and a narrower heart 

than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by 

day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sjinpa- 

thize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated with 

a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to 

drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent 

its novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than 

his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are hea^'y : think not they 

are glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand 

in thine. 



188 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

It may be my lord is weary, that liis brain is over 

wrought : 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with 

thy hghter thought 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under- 
stand — 

Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew 
thee with my hand 1 . 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 

heart's disgrace, 
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last 
embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 

strength of youth 1 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living 

truth 1 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 

Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead 

of the fool I 

Well, — 'tis well that I should bluster I — Hadst thou 

less unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever 

wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears 

but bitter fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be 

at the root. 

Never, though my mortal summers to such length 

of years should come 
As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging 

rookery home. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 18S 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the 

mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew 

her, kind ? 

I remember one that perished: sweetly did she 

speak and move : 
Buch a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

love. 

iJan I think of her as dead, and love her for the 

love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love forever^ 

more. 

Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth 

the poet sings. 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart 

be put to proof, 
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is 

on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring 

at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the 

shadows rise and fall. 

rhen a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to hi^ 

drunken sleep, 
ffo thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that 

thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whispered by 

the phantom years, 
AJid a song from out the distance in the ringing of 

thine ears 



190 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness 

on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to thy 

rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender 

voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy 

trouble dry. 

Baby lips -will laugh me down : my latest rival 

brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 

mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a deamesa 

not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of 

the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty 

part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 

daughter's heart. 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings — she 

herself was not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had sufi'ered" — Perish in thy 

self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — ^lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should 

I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 

despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon 

days like these ? 
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to 

golden keys. 



LOCKSJLEY HALL. 191 

Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets 

ovei'flow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which 1 

should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman*s 

ground, 
When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds 

are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 

Honor feels. 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 

other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier 

page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, oh thou wondrous 

Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before 

the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult 

of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 

years would yield. 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves hia 
father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and 

nearer drawn, 
Sees In heaven the light of London flaring like a 

dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before 

him then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 

throngs of men ; 



192 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 

something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the things 

that they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 

see, 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 
magic sails, 
. Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 
costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 
rained a ghastly dew 

From the nations' airy navies grappling in the cen- 
tral blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind 

rushing warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging through 

the thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the 

battle-flags were furled 
In the Parhament of man, the Federation of the 



rhere the common sense of most shall hold a fretful 

reahn in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal 

law. 

So I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping through 

me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the 

jaundiced eye ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 193 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are 

out of joint, 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from 
point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping 
nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- 
dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing 

purpose runs. 
And the thoughts of men are widened with the 

process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 

youthful joys. 
Though the deep heart of existence beat forever 

like a boy^s ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger 

on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world is more 

and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears 

a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness 

of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on th»; 

bugle-horn, 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for 

their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 

mouldered string ? 
I am shamed through aU my nature to iiave loved 

so sHght a thing. 

VOL. I. 13 



194 LOCESLET HALL. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman*a 

pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 

shallower brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

matched with mine. 
Are as moonhght unto sunlight, and as water unto 

wine — 

Here at' least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, 

for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life begaa 

to beat; 

Where in wild Mahrattarbattle fell my father evil- 
starred; 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 
ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — ^there to wander far 

away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the 



Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 

happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots 

of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European 

flag, 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 

trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the 

heavy-fruited tree — 
Bununer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 

of sea. 



LOCESLET HALL. 195 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in 

this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 

that shake mankind. 

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have 

scope and breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and 

they shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their 

lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rain* 

bows of the brooks. 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 

books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy I but I know my 

words are wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 

Christian child. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 

glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 

lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun 

or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one 

by one. 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in Ajalon I 



196 GODIVA. 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, foi> 

ward let us ran^e. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing 
grooves of change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 

younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as 
when life begun : 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the light- 
nings, weigh the Sun — 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not 

set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through ail my 

fancy yet 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locks- 
ley Hall ! 

Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the 
roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over 

heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 

thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or 

fire or snow ; 
For the nughty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I 

go. 



GODIVA. 

I waited for the train at Coventry; 

I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge. 



GODIVA. 197 

To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped 
The city's ancient legend into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, 
And loathed to see them overtaxed ; but she 
Did more, and underwent, and overcame, 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, we starve ! 
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone. 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their tears, 
And prayed him, " If they pay this tax, they starve.** 
Whereat he stared, replying half-amazed, 
*' You would not let your little finger ache 
For such as these ? " — " But I would die," said she. 
He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul : 
Then filliped at the diamond in her ear ; 
" O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — " Alas ! " she said, 
" But prove me what it is I would not do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. 
He answered, " Ride you naked through the town, 
And I repeal it ; " and nodding, as in scorn, 
He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 

So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift and blow. 
Made war upon each other for an hour, 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she would loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved her well, 
From then till noon no foot should pace the street, 
No eye look down, she passing ; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window barred 



198 GODIVA. 

Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
She lingered, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head, 
And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee j 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reached 
The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt 
In purple blazoned with armorial gold. 

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : 
The deep air listened round her as she rode, 
And aU the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
The little wide-mouthed heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot 
Light horrors through her pulses : the bhnd walla 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less through all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flowered elder thicket from the field 
Gleam through the Gothic archways in the wall. 

Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity. 
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth. 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear. 
Peeped— but his eyes, before they had their will. 
Were shrivelled into darkness in his head. 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancelled a sense misused ; 
And she, that knew not, passed : and all at once, 
With twelve gi-eat shocks of sound, the shameleaa 

noon 
Was clashed and hammered from a hundred towers, 
One after one : but even then she gained 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and crowned, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE TWO VOICES. 199 



THE TWO VOICES 

A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery', 
Were it not better not to be ? ** 

Then to the still small voice I said : 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply : 

" To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

•* An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire maiL 

" He dried his wings : like gauze they grew ; 
Through crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature through five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied : 

" Self-bHnded are you by your pride : 

Look up through night : the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

b boundless better, boundless worse. 



200 THE TWO VOICES. 

« Think you this mould of hopes and fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
. In yonder hundred million spheres ? *' 

It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

♦' Though thou wert scattered to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answered scoffin^ly : 
" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 
Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy pecuHar difierence 

Is cancelled in the world of sense ? ** 

I would have said, " Thou canst not know," 
But my full heart, that worked below, 
Rained through my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
" Thou art so steeped in misery. 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 

Nor any train of reason keep ; 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.** 

I said, " The years with change advance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life fi'om happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
Even yet." But he : " What drug can make 
A withered palsy cease to shake ? '* 



THE TWO VOICES. 



M 



I wept, " Though I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

" And men, through novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not.'* 

" Yet," said the secret voice, " some time, 
Sooner or later, wiU gi-ay prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for light, 

Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 

Would sweep the tracts of day and night 

" Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

" Were this not weU, to bide mine hour, 
Though watching from a ruined tower 
How grows the day of human power ? " 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain. 
Just breaking over land and main ? 

" Or make that mom, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and tovf* * 



202 THE TTVO VOICES. 

*' Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
In midst of knowledge dreamed not yet. 

" Thou hast not gained a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light. 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'Twere better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak, 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought resigned, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 
* He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 

" To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, 

Than once from dread of pain to- die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 



" Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the withered leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garnered Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is filled with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 



THE TWO VOICES. 203 

** Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
** From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ' 

•* Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warmed me in the days 
While still I yearned for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Amon^ the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flashed and rung. 

*' I sunw the joyfiil Paean clear, 
And, sitting, burnished without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

*' Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move, 
To put together, part and prove. 
And mete the bounds of hate and love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

" To search through all I felt and saw, 
The springs of Hfe, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law : 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But ha\'ing sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

" To pass, when Life her light withdraws^ 
Not void of righteous self-applause. 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 



204 THE TWO VOICES. 

" In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honored, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious teara^ 
When, soiled with noble dust, he heara 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke, 
What time the foeman's line is broke. 
And all the war is roUed in smoke." 

" Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream was good 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 

*' Then comes the check, the change, the falL 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, through enduring pain, 
Linked month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 

" That men with knowledge merely played, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Though scaling slow fi-om grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind. 
Named man, may hope some truth to find. 
That bears relation to the mind. 



THE TWO VOICES. ^5 

** For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flio;hts of hope. 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope, 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

" If straight thy track, or if oblique, 

Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike, 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

" And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor. 
Calling thyself a little lower 

" Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl I 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a he. 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 



20G THE TWO VOICES. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven. 
Achieving cahn, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream. 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Even in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

*' Which did accomplish their desire 
Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones, 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Though cursed and scorned, and biitised with 
stones : 

" But looking upward, full of grace, 
He prayed, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were fixed. 

The elements were kindlier mixed.** 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse. 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fixed and frozen to permanence ; 



THE TWO VOICES. 207 

" For I go, weak from suffering here ; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear ? '* 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 

" His face, that two hours since hath died ; 

Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

" WUl he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing expressed 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Though one should smite him on the cheek 
And on the mouth, he will not speak- 

" BGs little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kissed, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north-wind rave 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him.'* 

" If aU be dark, vague voice," I said, 

" These things are wrapped in doubt and dread. 

Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

" The sap dries up : the plant declines. 
A deeper tale my heart divines. 
Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? 

*' I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow crept: 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touched by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crowned his head : 

* Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 

* We find no motion in the dead." 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by these 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ' 

*' Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence. 

By which he doubts against the sense *( 

" He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

*' Here sits he shaping wings to fly ; 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That t}^e of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

*' He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And through thick veUs to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 



THE TWO VOICES. 209 

" The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counter-chocks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something good, 

He may not do the thing he would. 

*' Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn. 
Vast images in glimmering dawn. 
Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

" Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt 

*' But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

" The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve.** 

As when a billow, blown against. 

Falls back, the voice with which I fenced 

A little ceased, but recommenced. 

" Where wert thou when thy father played 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

" A merry boy they called him then. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

** Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, 

VOL. I. 14 



810 THE TWO VOICES. 

" Who took a wife, who reared hia race, 
Whose wrinkles gathered on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

*' A life of nothings, nothing-worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

" These words," I said, " are like the rest, 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

♦* But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin imphes to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain. 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

" As old mythologies relate, 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping through from state to state 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then. 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much. 

For those two ^kes might meet and touch 



THE TWO VOICES. ^jl 

** But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height, 

Some yearmng toward the lamps of night 

" Or if through lower lives I came — 
Though all experience past became • 

ConsoUdate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not 

" And men, whose reason long was blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

" For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she cUmb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like ghmpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something here } 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice laughed. " I talk," said he, 
" Not with thy dreams. Suflace it the© 
Thy pain is a reality." 



2l3 THE TWO V0ICE8 

" But thou,** said I, " hast missed thy mark, 
Who sought'st to wreck my moital ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly longed for death. 

" *Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, 

life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
** Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like softened airs that blowing steal. 
When meres begin to uncongeal. 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

Jn to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each entered hke a welcome guest. 

One walked between his wife and child, 
W^ith measured footfall firm and mild, 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Leaned on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 



THE TWO VOICES. 213 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walked demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat 

I blest them, and they wandered on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A httle whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, " Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good.** 

A httle hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an ^olian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes ; 

Such seemed the whisper at my side : 

" What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? "* 

cried. 
" A hidden hope,'* the voice rephed ; 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 

To feel, although no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veile'th love, itself is love. 



M4 THE DAY-DREAM. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wondered at the bounteous hours, 

The slow result of winter showers : 

You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wondered, while I paced alon^ : 

The woods were filled so full with song. 

There seemed no room for sense of wrong. 

So variously seemed all things wrought, 
I marvelled, how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Rejoice I rejoice I ** 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O, Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went through many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dreamed, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 215 

And would you have the thought I had, 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broideiy-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face, 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhjTues are dazzled from their place, 

And ordered words asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come} 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower. 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs 

In these, in those the life is stayed. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings. 

That watch the sleepers from the walL 



216 THE DAY-DREAM. 

Here sits the Butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drained ; and the i a 
The wrinkled steward at his t<isk, 

The mald-of-honor blooming fair : 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her Hps are severed as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fixed upon her cheek. 

Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that through the Oriel shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimmed with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gathered in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance Hke a Uttle wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen. 

High up, the topmost palace-spire. 

When will the hundred summers die. 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Brinw truth that sways the soul of men ? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were ordered, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 217 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

Year after year unto her feet, 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purple coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm. 

And moves not on the rounded c-url. 

The silk star-broidered coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her lull black ringlets downward rolled, 
Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright : 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

She sleeps : her breathings are not heeird 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirred 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest-* 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE ARRIVAL. 

All precious things, discovered late, 
To those that seek them issue forth ; 

For love in sequel works with fate, 
And draws the veil from hidden worthi 

He travels far from other skies — 
His mantle glitters on the rocks — 



218 THE DAT-DREAM. 

A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 
And lighter-footed than the fox. 

The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are withered in the thorny close, 

Or scattered blanching in the grass. 
He gazes on the sUent dead : 

" They perished in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes through his head, 

" The many fail : the one succeeds.** 

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks 

He breaks the hedge : he enters there ! 
The color flies into bis cheeks : 

He trusts to hght on something fair ; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk. 

And whispered voices at his ear. 

More close and close his footsteps wind ; 

The magic music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters hke a lark. 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dai'k, 

How dark those hidden eyes must be I " 



THE REVIVAL. 

A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze through all the garden swept, 



THE DAT-DKEAM 218 

A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 
And sixty feet the fountain leapt 

The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 

The butler drank, the steward scrawled, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 

The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled, 
The maid and page renewed their strife, 
• The palace banged, and buzzed and clackt. 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dashed downward in a cataract 

And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself upreared, 
And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

*Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 

" Pardy," returned the king, " but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mentioned half an hour ao-o ? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vam. 

In courteous words returned reply : 
But daUied with his golden chain. 

And, smiling, put the question by. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 
And round her waist she felt it fold, 

And far across the hills they went 
In that new world which is the old : 

Across the hills, and far away 
Beyond their utmost purple rim, 



220 THE DAY-DREAM. 

And deep Into the dying day 
The happy princess followed him. 

** I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; " 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 'twas such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, streamed through many a golden bar, 

The twihght melted into morn. 

" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled 1 ** 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoyed the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 

The twUight died into the dark. 

" A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where I * 
" O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there.** 
And o'er the hUls, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Through all the world she followed him. 



MORAL. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 
And if you find no moral there, 

Go look in any glass and say. 
What moral is in being fair. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 221 

O, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply blows? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 

But any man that walks the mead 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, 
A/3cording as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 'twere to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOI. 

Tou shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Hi^ell — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep through terms of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet-forms of stronger hour*, 
The vast RepubUcs that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth. 

And in the morning of tb3 times. 



222 THE DAY-DREAM. 

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Through sunny decades new and strange, 

Or gay quinquenniads, would we reap 
The flower and quintessence of change. 

Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light. 

That I might kiss those eyes awake I 
For, am I right or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not care ; 
You'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there*: 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging through and through, 
To search a meaning for the song. 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-gracefiil head, so richly curled, 
And evermore a costly kiss. 

The prelude to some brighter world. 

For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower. 
What eyes, like thine, have wakened hopes ? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly joined ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved. 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it In the name of wife. 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasped the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 



AMPHION. 223 



EPILOGUE. 



So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your ^lass, and say, 

" "What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? ** 
What wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight, 
Like long-tailed birds of Paradise, 

That float through Heaven, and cannot light > 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me. 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree, 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call, 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber 1 



Tis said he had a tunefiil tongue, 
Such happy intonation, 



224 AMPHION. 

Wlierever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirred its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches. 
Young ashes pirouetted down, 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivj^-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming. 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 

The woodbine wreaths that bind her, 
And down the middle buzz ! she went 

With all her bees behind her : 
The poplars, in long order due, 

With cypress promenaded. 
The shock-head wiUows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shod alder from the wave. 

Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each plucked his one foot from the grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine, 

The vine streamed out to follow. 
And, sweating rosin, plumped the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see, 
AVhen, ere his song was ended. 

Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 
The country-side descended ; 

And shepherds from the mount^un-eaves 



AMPHION. 225 

Looked down, half-pleased, half-frightened. 
As dashed about the drunken leaves 
The random sunshine lightened 1 

O, nature first was fresh to men. 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle I shaike the twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance : 
Blow, flute, and stir the stifi'-set sprigs, 

And scu'rhous roots and tendons. 

*Tis vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strmnming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick. 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading : 
O Lord ! — 'tis in my neighbor's ground, 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening through there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees, 

To look as if they grew there. 

The withered IMisses ! how they prose 

O'er books of travelled seamen, 
And show you shps of aU that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut. 

And alleys, faded places. 
By squares of tropic summer shut, 

And warmed in crystal cases. 
vol- I. 15 



226 BT. AGKES. 

But these, though fed with careful dirt, 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work through months of toil, 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil, 

To grow my own plantation. 
rU take the showers as they fall, 

I wiU not vex my bosom : 
Enough, if at the end of aU 

A httle garden blossom. 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 

I. 
Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes: 

May my soul follow soon I 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 



As these white robes are soiled and dark. 
To yonder shining ground ; 



SIR GALAHAD. 221 

As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, oh Lord ! and far, 

Through all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a ghttering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 



He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors. 

And strews her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shming sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride I 



SIR GALAHAD. 



My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten. 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The sphntered spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 



828 SIR GALAHAD. 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

II. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine ; 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair through faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

III. 
When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me s^vinis. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of h}Tnns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. 

And solemn chants resound between. 

IV. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap jn board : no hehnsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light I 

Thi-ee angels bear the holy Grail: 



BIB GALAHAD. 22S 

With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleepinoj wings they saU. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God 1 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-light mingles with the stars. 

V. 
When on my goodly charger borne 

Through dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas mom, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, spins from brand and majl ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driying hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms m whistUng storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

VI. 

A maiden knight— to me Is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed In hving beams. 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear. 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touched, are turned to finest air. 

VII. 

The clouds are broken in the sky. 
And through the mountain- waJls 
A rolling organ-harmony 



230 EDWARD GRAT. 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
« O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Kide on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-armed I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 
Met me walking on yonder way, 

** And have you lost your heart ? " she said ; 
" And are you married yet, Edward Gray ? ' 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turned away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well, 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept. 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

*' Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; 
Filled I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adaii- was dying for me. 

** Cruel, cruel the words I said I 
Cruelly came they back to-day : 

* You're too slight and fickle,* I said, 
* To trouble the heart of Edward Gray 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 231 

" There I put my face in the grass — 
Whispered, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair 1 * 

« Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
* Here lies the body of EUen Adair ; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray I * 

" Love may come, and love may go. 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I wiU love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

** Bitterly wept I over the stone : 

Bitterly weeping I turned away : 
There Hes the body of EUen Adair ! 

And there the heart of Edward Gray 1 * 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 

To which I most resort. 
How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers, 
But su h whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind. 



S82 WILL UVATERPROOF'S 

To make me write my random rhymeSi 
Ere they be half-forgotten ; 

Nor add and alter, many thnes, 
Till all be ripe and rotten. 

I pledge her, and she eomes and dlpa 

Her laurel in the wine. 
And lays it thrice upon my lips, 

These favored lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New Ufe-blood warm the bosom, 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 

T pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Ofalllfeltandfeel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Through many an hour of sununer suns 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kissed ; 

The gas-hght wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, through a vinous mist, 

My college friendships ghmmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen. 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men, 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 2S3 

Ah yet, though all the world forsake, 

Though fortune clip my wings, 
I wiU not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let "Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the 



This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of Hght and shade 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But through a kind of glory. 
* * * * 

Head-waiter, honored by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling-ripe. 
The pint, you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But though the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ V 

For since I came to live and learn. 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head. 



234 WILL waterproof's 

Which bears a seasoned brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Though soaked and saturate, out and out, 

TTirough every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house, 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Where long and largely we carouse, 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink, defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept. 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stowed (when classic Canning died} 

In musty bins and chambers. 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is I 

She answered to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this. 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat. 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her iife into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout. 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the conunon breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came, like Gan}Tnede, 

From some delightfiil valley. 



LTRICAL MONOLOGUE. 283 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultrj' drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And crammed a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crowed lustier, late and early, . 
Sipt wine from silver, praising Gk>d, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy, 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, 

And followed with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fijsed forever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks 1 
'Tis but a steward of the can. 

One shade more plump than coromon ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me down 
Into the common day ? 



836 WILL waterproof's 

Is It the weight of that half-crown, 
Which I shall have to pay ? 

For, something duller than at first, 
Nor wholly comfortable, 

I sit, (my empty glass reversed,) 
And thrumming on the table : 

Half-fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task : 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

To prove myself a poet ; 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gathered up ; 
The truth that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah ! let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
*Tis gone : a thousand such have sllpt 

Away from my embraces, 
And fallen into the dusty crypt 

Of darkened forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 
Long since, and came no more : 

With peals of genial clamor sent 
From many a tavern-door, 

With twisted quirks and happy hits, 
From misty men of letters ; 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 23t 

The tavern-hours of mighty -mts— 
Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native q^Iow : 
Nor yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warmed, 

He flashed his random speeches ; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarmed 

His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last, 

At half thy real worth ? 
1 hold it ^ood, good things should pass : 

With time I will not quarrel ; 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence. 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungiy sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 



238 LADY CLAJIE. 

We fret, we fume, Tvould slilil our skina. 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polished tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and ffo, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 
And watched by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes ; 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more : 
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven ; 
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betrothed were they : 

They two will wed the morrow mom ; 
God's blessing on the day 1 



LADY CLARE. 239 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, " "VVho was this that went from thee ?* 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thanked ! " said Alice the nurse, 
" That aU comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, mj 
nurse ? " 

Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? ** 
" As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 

" I speak the truth : you are my chUd. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth as I live by bread 1 
I buned her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

'* Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother," she said, " if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due.** 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 

And all you have will be Lord Eonald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar bom," she said, 
" I will specS: out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 



240 LADY CLARE. 

** Nay now, my child," «?ald Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said " Not so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nuise, 
" The man will cleave unto his right." 

" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Though I should die to-night." 

** Yet give one kiss to your mother dear I 
Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." 

" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 
" So strange it seems to me. 

** Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so. 
And lay your hand upon my head. 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Eonald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

Ajid followed her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth 1 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

*' If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

" And not the Lady Clare.'* 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 241 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn : 

He turned and kissed her where she stood : 

" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH, 

In her ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell. 
Maiden, I have watched thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She repUes, in accents fainter, 

" There is none I love like thee.** 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter. 

Presses his without reproof; 
Leads her to the village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present ; 

Little can I give my wife. 

VOLu I. 16 



242 THE LORD OP BURLEIGH. 

Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life.'* 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand : 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell.** 
So she goes by him attended. 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and ordered gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Bunt for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their dayi 
O but she wiQ love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerflil home ; 
She will order all things duly. 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before ; 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 



THE LORD OP BURLEIGH. 249 

And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in stiite and bounty, 
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As It were with shame she blushes. 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale a^ain as death did prove : 
But he clasped her hke a lover, * 

And he cheered her soul with love, 
bo she strove against her weakness, 
^^ough at times her spirit sank : 
bhaped her heart with woman's meekness 

lo all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weighed upon her, 

And perplexed her, night and mom. 
With the burthen of an honor 

Unto which she was not bom. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter. 
As she murmured, " O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter 
VVhich did win my heart from me ' " 
So she drooped and drooped before him. 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore hun. 

Then before her time she died. 

W^PIpg' weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 



844 BIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 

Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he looked at her and said, 
" Bring the dress, and put it on her 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest 



BIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINB 
VERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laughed between, 
And, far in forestrdeeps unseen. 
The topmost elm tree gathered green 
From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheeled along, 
Hushed all the groves from fear of wrong : 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran. 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan. 
Above the teeming ground. 



A FAREWELL. 24f 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode throu2;h the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seemed a part of joyous Spring : 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 
Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet, 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimmed the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
"WTien all the Simmering moorland rings 
With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast through sun and shade. 
The happy winds upon her played, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She looked so lovely, as she swayed 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bhss, 
And all his worldly worth for this. 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 



246 THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea 

A rivulet then a river : 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be. 
Forever and forever. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say ; 
Barefooted came the beggar maid 

Before the King Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 

One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

" This beggar maid shall be my queen 1 ' 



THE VISION OF SIN. MT 



THE VISION OF SIN. 

I HAD a vision when tlie niglit was late : 
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 
He rode a horse with wings that would have flown. 
But that his heavy rider kept him down. 
And from the palace came a child of sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led him in, 
\Vhere sat a company withi heated eyes, 
Expecting when a fountain should arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and Hps — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lyin^, languid shapes. 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of 
grapes. 

Then methought I heard a mellow sound, 

Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 

Nan-owing in to where they sat assembled, 

Low voluptuous music winding trembled. 

Woven in circles : they that heard it sighed. 

Panted hand in hand with faces pale. 

Swung themselves, and in low tones rephed ; 

Till the fountain spouted, showering wide 

Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; ' 

Then the music touched the gates and died ; 

Rose again from where it seemed to faU, 

Stormed in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 

Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, 

As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale. 

The strong tempestuous treble mrobbed and palpi« 

tated; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round ; 
Then they started from their places, 



•248 THE VISION OF SIN. 

Moved mth violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view. 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dashed together in blinding dew : 
Pill, killed with some luxurious agony 
rhe nerve-dissolving melody 
Fluttered headlong from the sky. 

And then I looked up toward a mountain-tract, 
That girt the region with high cUff* and lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn. 
Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, 
From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 
Came floating on for many a month and year. 
Unheeded : and I thought I would have spoken. 
And warned that madman ere it grew too late : 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken. 
When that cold vapor touched the palace gate. 
And linked again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-toothed man as lean as death, 
Who slowly rode across a withered heath, 
ind lighted at a ruined inn, and said : 

" Wrinkled ostler, grim and tliin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the flower of life is past : 

It is long l:>efore you wed. 



Tms vifiON GP sm. 249 

** Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 

At The Dragon on the heath ! 
Let us have a quiet hour, 

Let us hob-and-uob with Death. 

" I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivelled lips, 

When a blanket wraps the day, 
When the rotten woodland drips, 

And the leaf is stamped in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine : 

Callest thou that thing a leg ? 
Which is thinnest V thine or mine ? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works : 

Thou hast been a sinner too : 
Ruined trunks on withered forks, 

Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 

Have a rouse before the mom : 
Every moment dies a man, 

Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruined blood ; 

Therefore coraes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Risins: to no faucv-fii«s. 



850 THE VISION DF SIN. 

" Name and fame I to fly sublime 

Through the courts, the camps, the scbodai 

Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue I — to be good and just — 

Every heart, when sifted well, 
Is a clot of warmer dust. 

Mixed with cunning sparks of hell. 

" O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the mom : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave : 
They are filled with idle spleen, 

Rising, falling, like a wave. 

For they know not what they measu 

** He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 
And the tyrant's cruel glee 

Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 

All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up. 

And is lightly laid again. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 851 

** Greet her with applausive breath, 

Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; 
In her right a civic wreath, 

In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

** Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs : 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

** Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 

Visions of a perfect State : 
Drink we, last, the public fool, 

Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 

Till thy drooping courage rise, 
And the glow-worm of the grave 

Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears. 

And the warmth of hand in hand. 

" Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance ; 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 



26i THE VISION OF Sm. 

** Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

•* Trooping from their mouldy deng 
The chap-fallen circle spreads ; 

Welcome, fellow-citizens. 

Hollow hearts and empty heads I 

" You are bones, and what of that ? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modelled on a skull. 

*• Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a mesisure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bones. 

** No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship, 

" Lo 1 God's likeness — the ground-plan- 
Neither modelled, glazed, or framed : 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath 1 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death I 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE. 253 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 
When the locks are crisp and curled ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall. 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can ! 

Mngle madness, mingle scorn ! 
Dregs of life, and lees of man : 

Yet we will not die forlorn." 

The voice grew faint : there came a further change \ 

Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range : 

Below were men and horses pierced with worms. 

And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 

By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, 

Old plash of rains, and refuse patched with moss. 

Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a crime 

Of .sense avenged by sense that wore with time." 

Another said : " The crime of sense became 

The crime of malice, and is equal blame." 

And one : " He had not wholly quenched his 

power ; 
A little grain of conscience made him sour." 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope ? " 
To which an answer pealed from that high land, 
But in a tongue no man could understand : 
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE. 

Sure never yet was Antelope 

Could skip so lightly by. 
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 



^^4 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 

How lightly whirls the skipping-rope I 

How fairy-like you fly ! 
Go, get you gone, you muse and mope — 

I hate that silly sigh. 
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, 

Or tell me how to die. 
There, take it, take my skipping-rope 

And hang yourself thereby. 



MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH, AND 
LEAVE. 

Move eastward, happy earth, and leave* 
Yon orange sunset waning slow ; 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go ; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow • 

Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light. 

And move me to my marriage-mom. 
And round again to happy night 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, oh Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play i 

O well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on :he bay I 



PROLOGUE. ^e 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But oh for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still I 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, oh Sea I 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He passed by the town, and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat. 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak 

And stared, with his foot on the prey, 
And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many 
songs, 

But never a one so gay. 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away." 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY, 

PBOLOGUK. 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun 



256 PROLOGUE. 

The neighboring borough with their Institute, 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
A Walter, too, — with others of our set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian-place. 

And me that morning Walter showed the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in the hall 
^lowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their 

names, 
Grew side by side ; and on the pavement lay- 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together ; celts and calumets. 
Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries. 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer. 
His own forefathers' arms and armor hung. 

And " this," he said, " was Hugh's at Agincourt; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With ail about hun," — which he brou-rht, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kino;s 
'Who laid about them at their wills and died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that armed 
Her own fair head, and sallying through the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. 

" O miracle of women," said the book, 
*' O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his wish, 
Kor bent, nor broke, nor shunned a soldier's death, 
But now when all was lost or seemed as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 



PROLOGUE. 257 

Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, 
And, falUng on them like a thunderbolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels, 
And some were whelmed with missiles of the wall, 
And some were pushed with lances from tlie rock, 
And part were drowned within the whii'ling brook: 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! " 

So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; 
And, 1 all rapt in this, " Come out," he said, 
" To the Abbey : there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Liha with the rest." We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down through the park : strange was the sight to me 
For all the sloping pasture murmured, sown 
With happy faces and %vith holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand heads : 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One reared a font of 

stone, 
And drew, from butts of water on the slope, 
The fountain of the moment, playing now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, 
Ur steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danced Uke a wisp : and somewhat lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials fired 
A cannon : Echo answered in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a group of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dishnked with shrieks and laughter : round the 

lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies : perched about the knoUs 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 
And there thi'ough twenty posts of telegraph 

VOL- I. J 7 



258 PROLOGUE. 

They flashed a saucy message to and fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; otherwhere 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamor bowled 
And stumped the wicket ; babies rolled about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew through h'gh' 
And shadow, while the twangling violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of the time 
And long we gazed, ibut satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arched and ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic, lighter than a fire, 
Through one wide chasm of time and frost they 

gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but all within 
The sward was trim as any garden lawn : 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was Ralph himseli', 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport. 
Half child, half woman as she was, had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm. 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk. 
That made the old warrior from his ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the guests. 
And there we joined them : then the maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it preached 
An universal culture for the crowd. 
And all tilings great ; but we, unworthier, told 
Of college : he had climbed across the spikes. 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars, 
And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs ; and one 
Discussed his tutor, rough to common men 



PROLOGUE. 25% 

But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the jVIaster, as a rogue in grain 
Veneered with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talked, above their heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which brought 
My book to mind ; and opening this, I read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls, 
And much I praised her nobleness, and " Where/* 
Asked Walter, patting Liha's head, (she lay 
Beside him,) " lives there sach a woman now ? ** 

Quick answered Liha, " There are thousands nov* 
Such women, but convention beats them down ; 
It is but bringing up ; no more than that : 
You men have done it : how I hate you all I 
Ah, were I something great ! I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you then, 
That love to keep us children 1 O, I wish 
That I were some great Princess, I would build 
Far off from men a college like a man's. 
And I would teach them all that men are taught ; 
We are twice as quick!" And here she shook 

aside 
The hand that played the patron with her cuils. 

And one said, smiling, " Pretty were the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt 
AVith prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans. 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden-hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower the nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 



260 PROLOGUE. 

Sbe tapt her tiny silken-sandaled foot : 

" That's your light way ; but I would make it death 

For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laughed ; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make her, she : 
But AValter hailed a score of names upon her, 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful Puss," 
And swore he longed at college, only longed, 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they talked 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of pohtics ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the souls of deans 
They rode ; they betted ; made a hundred friends, 
And caught the blossom of the flpng terms, 
But missed the mignonette of Vivian-place, 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke, 
Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 
" We doubt not that. O yes, you missed us much 
I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you did." 

She held it out ; and as a parrot turns 
Up through gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart, and not for harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shrieked 
And wrung it. " Doubt my word again ! " he said 
*' Come, listen I here is proof that you were missed 
We seven stayed at Christmas up to read ; 
And there we took one tutor as to read: 
The hard-grained Muses of the cube and square 
Were out of season : never man, I think, 
So mouldered in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echoed fi-osty feet. 
And our long walks wer(^ stript as bare as brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail : often, like as many girls — 



PROLOGUE. 261 

Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 

As many little trifling Lilias — played 

Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, 

And whafs my thour/ht and 2vhcJi and where and hou\ 

And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 

As here at Christmas." 

She remembered that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men tell men, 
She wondered, by themselves ? 

• A half-disdain 
Perched on the pouted blossom of her lips : 
And Walter nodded at me : " He began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; and so 
We forged a seven-fold story. Kind ? what kind ? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms. 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer too," 
Said Lilia; " Why not now," the maiden Aunt. 
" Why not a summer's as a winter's tale ? 
A tale for summer, as befits the time ; 
And something it should be to suit the place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn 1 " 

Walter warped his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I laughed, 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth 
An echo, Uke a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wi'ong had touched her face 
With color) turned to me with " As you will — 
Eleroic if you will, or what you will, 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 
' Take Lilia, then, for heroine," clamored he, 
And make her some great Princess, six feet high, 



262 THE PRES'CESS; 

Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to whi her ! " 

" Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answered ; " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as required. — 
But something made to suit with time and plane, 
A Gothic ruin, and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade. 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments, 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them 

aU,— 
This were a medley I we should have him back 
Wlio told the ' Winter's tale,' to do it for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad, or a song, 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began. 
And the rest followed ; and the women sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



I. 

A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face. 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl, 
For on my cradle shone the northern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-olf grandsire burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold. 
Dying, that none of all our blood should know 
The shadow from the substance, and that one 
Should come to fight with shadows, and to fall 
For so, my mother said, the story ran. 



A MEDLEY. 26 S 

And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less, 

An old and strange affection of the bouse. 

Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven knows wha! 

On a sudden, in the midst of men and day, 

And while I walked and talked as heretofore, 

I seemed to move among a world of ghosts, 

And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 

Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane, 

And pawed his beard, and mutter'd catalepsy. 

My mother pitying made a thousand prayers ; 

My mother was as mild as any saint. 

Half-canonized by all that looked on her, 

So gracious was her tact and tenderness : 

But my good father thought a king a king ; 

He cared not for the affection of the house ; 

He held his sceptre Hke a pedant's wand 

To lash offence, and with long arms and hands 

Reached out, and picked offenders from the mass 

For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
AVhile life was yet in bud and blade, betrothed 
To one, a neighboring Princess ; she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old ; and still from time to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance ; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart. 
And one dark tress ; and all around them both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm, as bees about theii 
queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I should wed 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as wind : 
Besides, they saw the king ; he took the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that was true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to blame ? 



264 THE princess; 

And maiden fancies ; loved to live alone 
Among her women : certain would not wed. 

That morning in the presence-room I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two fnends: 
Ihe first, a gentleman of broken means, 
(His father's fault,) but given to starts and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twinned, as horse's ear and eye. 

Now while they spake I saw my father's face 
Grow long and troubled, like a rising moon, 
Inflamed with wrath : he started on his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snowed it down, and rent 
The wonder of the loom through warp and woof, 
Prom skirt to skirt ; and at the last he sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind ; then he chewed 
The thrice-turned cud of wrath, and cooked his 

spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king. 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bnde once seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame, ^ 
May rue the bargain made." And Florian said : 
" I have a sister at the foreign court. 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear. 
The lady of three castles in that land. 
Through her this matter might be sifted clean.** 
And Cyi'il whispered : " Take me with you too.** 
Then, laughing, " What if these weird seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near 



A MEDLEY 265 

To point you out the shadow from the trath I 
Take me : I'll serve you better in a strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinijes here :." but " No ! '* 
Roared the rough king, " you shall not ; we ourseli 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets : brecik the council up." 

But when the council broke, I rose and passed 
Through the wild woods that hung about the town \ 
Found a still place, and plucked her likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watched it lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tasselled trees : 
What were those fancies? wherefore break hei 

troth ? 
Proud looked the lips : but wiiile I meditated, 
A wind arose, and rushed upon the South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together ; and a Voice 
Went with it, " Follow, follow, thou shalt win.'* 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from court 
With Cp'il and with Florian, unperceived. 
Cat-footed through the town, and half in dxead 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs, 
With Ho ! from some bay-window shake the nigbt 
But all was quiet : from the bastion ed walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt. 
And flying reached the frontier : then we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so, by tilth and grange, 
And ^ines, and blowing bosks of wilderness, 
We gained tlie mother-city thick with towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the king. 
His name was Gama ; cracked and small his voice, 
But bland the smile that hke a wrinkling ■\vind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in Hues ; 
A little dry old man, without a star, 
Not like a king : three days he feasted us. 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came, 



266 THE princess; 

And my betrothed. " You do us, Prince," he said 

Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 

»' All honor. We remember love ourselves 

In our sweet youth : there did a compact pass 

Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 

I think the year in which our olives failed. 

I would you had her. Prince, with all my heart, 

With my full heart : but there were widows here, 

Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche ; 

They fed her theories, in and out of place, 

Maintaining that with equal husbandry 

The woman were an equal to the man. 

They harped on this ; with this our banquets rang. 

Our dances broke and buzzed in knots of talk; 

Nothing but this : my very ears were hot 

To hear them : knowledge, so my daughter held, 

Was aU in aU ; they had but been, she thought, 

As children ; they must lose the child, assume 

The woman ; then. Sir, awful odes she wrote. 

Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, 

But all she is and does is awful ; odes 

About this losing of the child ; and rhymes 

And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 

Beyond all reason : these the women sang ; 

And they that know such things — I sought but 



No critic I — would call them masterpieces : 

They mastered me. At last she begged a boon, 

A certain summer palace which I have 

Hard by your father's frontier : I said no, 

Yet being an easy man, gave it ; and there. 

All wild to found an University 

For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and more 

We know not, — only this : They see no men. 

Not even her brother Arac, nor the twins 

Her bretliren, though they love her, look upon hex 

As on a kind of paragon ; and I 

(Pardon me saying it) were much loth to breed 

Pispute betwixt myself and mine : but siiL_e 



A MEDLEY. 267 

(And I confess with right) you think me uound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to her ; 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance 
Ahuost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king ; 
And I, though nettled that he seemed to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. At last 
From hills that looked across a land of hope 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent^curve, 
Close at the boundary of the Uberties ; 
There entered an old hostel, called mine host 
To council, plied him with his richest wines, 



He, with a long, low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then exclaimed, 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he said, 
" Had given us letters, was he bound to speak ? 
The king would bear him out ; " and at the last — 
The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
♦' No doubt that we might make it worth his while. 
She once had passed that way ; he heard her speak 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw the like ; 
She looked as grand as doomsday, and as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there ; 
He always made a point to post with mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the boya : 
The land he understood for miles about 
Was tilled by women ; all the swine were sows 
And all the dogs " — 



268 THE princess; 

But while lie jested tlitis, 
A thought flashed through me, which I clothed in 

act, 
Remembering how we three presented Maid, 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our ^ood steeds, 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We followed up the river as we rode. 
And rode till midnight, when the college lights 
Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 
And linden alley ; then we past an arch, 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four winged horses dark against the stars, 
And some inscription ran along the front, 
But deep in shadow : further on we gained 
A Httle street, half garden and half house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak for noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us pealed the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare. 

There stood a bast of Pallas for a sign. 
By two sphere lamps blazoned hke Heaven and 

Earth 
With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry: riding in, we called ; 
A plump-armed Ostleress and a stable wench 
Came running at the call, and helped us down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and sailed 



A MEDLEY. 26 ^ 

Full-blown before us into rooms which gave 

Upon a pillared porch, the bases lost 

In laurel : her we asked of that and this, 

And who were tutors. " Lady Blanche," she said, 

" And Lady Psyche." '' Which was prettiest, 

Bestruatured ? " " Lady Psyche." " Hers are we, 

One voice, we cried ; and 1 sat down and wrote, 

In such a hand as when a field of corn 

Bows all its ears before the roaring East ; 

" Three ladies of the Northern empire pray 
Your Highness would enroU them with your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I sealed : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroU, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung. 
And raised the blinding bandage from his eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
And then to bed, where half in doze I seemed 
To float about a glimmering night, and watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. 



As through the land at eve we went, 

And plucked the ripened ears, 
We fell out, my wife and 1, 
0, we fell out, I know not why. 
And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
0, there above the little grave. 

We kissed again with tears. 



870 THE princess; 

II. 

At break of day the College Portress came ; 

She brought us Academic silks, in hue 

The lilac, with a silken hood to each. 

And zoned with gold ; and now when these wei'e 

on, 
And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 
I first, and following through the porch that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact of lucid marbles, bossed with lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, grouped in threes, 
Enringed a billowing fountain in the midst ; 
And here and there on lattice edges lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper sat, 
With two tame leopards crouched beside her throne. 
All beauty compassed in a female form, 
The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, 
Than our man's earth . such eyes were in her head, 
And so much grace and power, breathing down 
From over her arched brows, with every turn 
Lived through her to the tips of her long hands 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and said : 

" We give you welcome : not without redound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye come, 
The first-fruits of the stranger : aftertime. 
And that full voice which circles round the grave, 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. 
What ! are the ladies of your land so tall ? " 
" We of the court," said Cyril. " From the court ? 



A MEDLEY. 271 

She answered, " then ye know the Prince ? " and he 
" The climax of his age : as though there were 
One rose in all the world, your Highness that, 
He worships your ideal : " she replied : 
" We scarcely thought in our own hall to hear 
This ban-en verbiage, current among men, 
Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of power ; 
Your language proves you still the child. Indeed 
We dream not of him : when we set our hand 
To this great work, we purposed with ourselves 
Never to wed. You likewise will do well. 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you vrill, 
You may with those self-st}'led our lords ally 
Your fbitunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale.** 

At those high words, we, conscious of ourselves, 
Perused the matting ; then an officer 
Rose up and read the statutes, such as these : 
Not for three years to correspond with home ; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties ; 
Not for three years to speak with any men ; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed. 
We entered on the boards : and " Now," she cried, 
" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, our 

haU! 
Our statues !^not of those that men desire, 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; but she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war. 
The Rhodope that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose 



272 THE princess; 

Convention, since to look on noble forms 
Makes noble through the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O, lift your natures up :^ 
Embrace our aims ; work out your freedom. Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, 
The sins of emptiness, gossip, and spite, 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Leave us : you may go : 
To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 
For they press in from all the provinces, 
Ajid fin the hive." 

She spoke, and, bowing, waved 
Dismissal ; back again we crost the court 
To Lady Psyche's : as we entered in, 
There sat along the forms, like morning doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, 
A patient range of pupils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed, 
And on the hither side, or so she looked, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed Hke a star. 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglaia slept. We sat : the Lady glanced : 
Then Florian, but no liveher than the dame 
That whispered " Asses ears " among the sedge, 
*' My sister." " Comely too by aU that's fair," 
Said Cyril. " O, hush, hush ! " and she began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze of light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 
The planets : then the monster, then the man ; 
Tattooed or woaded, winter-clad in skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest" 



A MEDLEY. 273 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye-view of all the ungracious past ; 
Glanced at the legendarj- Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo ; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in each, 
How far from just : till warming with her theme, 
She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 
And little-footed China, touched on Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to chivalry : 
When some respect, however slight, was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However, then commenced the dawn : a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, Indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert 
None lordlier than themselves but that which madtf 
Woman and man. She had founded; thev must 

build: 
Here might they learn whatever men were taught * 
Let them not fear : some said their heads were less 
Some men's were smaU ; not they the least of men ; 
For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides, the brain was like the hand, and grew 
With using : thence the man's, if more was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field : some ages had been lost ; 
But woman ripened earlier, and her life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious names 
Were fewer, scattered stars, yet since in truth 
The highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Cadre, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe, 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman : and in arts of government, 
VOL. I. 18 



274 THE PRINCESS, 

Elizabeth and others ; arts of war, 

The peasant Joan and others ; arts of grace, 

Sappho and others vied with any man : 

And, last not least, she who had left her place, 

And bowed her state to them, that they might grow 

To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 

In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight 

Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy, 
Dilating on the future ; " everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more : 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare souls. 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the 
world." 

She ended here, and beckoned us : the rest 
Parted ; and, glowing full-faced welcome, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slackened sail flaps, aU her voice 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried, 
"My brother I" "Well, my sister." " O," she 

said, 
" WTiat do you here ? and in this dress ? and these ? 
Why, who are these ? a wolf within the fold ! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gi-acious to me I 
A plot, a plot, a plot to ruin all ! " 
" No plot, no plot," he answered. " Wretched boy, 
How saw you not the inscription on the gate. 
Let no man enter in on pain of death ? " 
"^ And if I had," he answered, " who could think 



A MEDLEY. 27ft 

The softer Adams of your Academe, 

O, sister, Sirens though they be, were such 

As chauted on the blanching bones of men ? " 

" But you will find it otherwise," she said. 

*' You jest ; ill jesting with edge-tools ! My vow 

Binds me to speak, and O, that iron will. 

That axe-like edge unturnable, our Head, 

The Princess." " Well, then, Psyche, take my life, 

And nail me like a weasel on a grange 

For warning : bury me beside the gate, 

And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 

Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 

All for the common good of womankind/* 

** Let me die, too," said Cyril, " having seen 

And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
" Albeit so masked, Madam, I love the truth ; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countrjTuan, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she was, 
And thus (what other way was left) I came.** 
" O Sir, oh Prince, I have no country ; none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I was 
Disrooted, what I am is ^afted here. 
Affianced, Sir ? love-whispers may not breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the thunderbolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; it falls.** 
" Yet pause," I said ; " for that inscription there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth. 
To scare the fowl from fruit : if more there be, 
If more and acted on, what follows ? war ; 
Your own work marred ; for this your Academe, 
Wliichever side be Victor, in the halloo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stonnless summer.'* '* Let the Princess judge 



276 THE PR1NCKS8; 

Of that/' she said : " farewell, Sir — and to you. 

I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I rejoined, 
•* The fifih in line from that old Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's haU 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, 
And all else fled : we point to it, and we say 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred veins." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian added, " she 
With whom I san^ about the morning hills, 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, 
And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow, 
To smooth my piUow, mix the foaming draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one ? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you now ? 
*' You are that Psyche," Cyril said, " for whom 
I would be that forever which I seem. 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, 
And glean your scattered sapience." 

Then once more, 
" Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the king 
Kissed her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern hills ; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them ? look ! for such are these and L" 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian asked, " to whom, 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the well ? 



A MEDLEY. 271 

Ine creature laid his muzzle on your lap, 

And sobbed, and you sobbed with it, and the blood 

Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. 

That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept 

O by the bright head of my little niece. 

You were that Psyche, and what are you now ? ** 

" You are that Psyche," Cyril said again, 

" The mother of the sweetest little maid 

That ever crowed for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! ** 
She answered, " peace I and why should I not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him you call great : he for the common weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need were, 
Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half tliis world, be swerved from right to save 
A prince, a brother ? a little will I yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and w^ell for you. 
O hard, when love and duty clash ! I fear 
My conscience will not count me fleckless ; yet — 
Hear my conditions : promise (otherwise 
You perish) as you came to slip away. 
To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be said. 
These women were too barbarous, would not learn ; 
They fled, who might have shamed us : promise, 
aU." 

What could we else, we promised each ; and she, 
Like some wild creature, newly-caged, commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms. 
Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said : 

I knew you at the first : though you have grown, 
. You scarce have altered : I am sad and glad 
To see ycu, Florian. i give thee to death, 



278 THE princess; 

My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it, 
Our mother, is she well ? " 

With that she kissed 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossomed up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall : and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
" I brought a message here from Lady Blanche.** 
Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown 
That clad her Hke an April daffodilly, 
(Her motlier's color,) with her lips apart. 
And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, 
As bottom agates seem to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, " Ah — Melissa — you ! 
You heard us ? " and Melissa, " O pardon me 1 
^ heard, I could not help it, did not wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, 
Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 
" I trust you," said the other, " for we two 
Were always friends, none closer, ehn and vine ; 
But yet your mother's jealous temperament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 
The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honor, these their lives." " Ah, fear me not," 
BepUed Melissa, '* no — I would not tell, 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, 



A MEDLEY. 279 

No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things 

That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 

" Be it so," the other, " that we still may lead 

The new light up, and culminate in peace, 

For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 

Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest man, 

Feasted the woman wisest then, in haUs 

Of Lebanonian cedar : nor should you 

(Though madam you should answer, we would ask) 

Less welcome find among us, if you came 

Among us, debtors for our lives to you, 

Myself for something more." He said not what, 

But " Thanks," she answered, " go : we have been 

too long 
Together : keep your hoods about the face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be well." 

We turned to go, but Cyril took the child, 
And held her round the knees against his waist, 
And blew the swollen cheek of a trumpeter, 
While Psyche watched them, smiling, and the child 
Pushed her flat hand against his face and laughed 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we strolled 
For half the day through stately theatres 
Benched crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration : followed then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. 
With scraps of thundi'ous Epic Hlted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
Aiid quoted odes, and jewels five- words-long, 
That on the stretched forefinger of all Time 
Sparkle forever : then we dipt in aU 
That ti-eats of whatsoever is, the state, 



280 THE PRINCESS ; 

The total cbronicles of man, the mind, 
The morals, something of the frame, the roi'k. 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. 
And whatsoever can be taught and known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken fence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke : 
Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we." 
They hunt old trails," said Cyril, " very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet invent V " 
" Ungracious ! " answered Florian, " have you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talked 
The trash that made me sick, and almost sad V " 
" O trash," he said, " but with a kernel in it. 
Should I not call her wise who made me wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her in a flash. 
Than if my brainpan were an empty hull, 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls 
And round these halls a thousand baby loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts. 
Whence follows many a vacant pang ; but O 
With me. Sir, entered in the bigger boy, 
The Head of all the golden-shafted firm. 
The long-limbed lad that had a Psyche too ; 
He cleft me through the stomacher ; and now 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it hold *? 
1 have no sorcerer's malison on me, 
No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 
Flatter myself that always, everywhere, 
I know the substance when I see it. Well, 
Are castles shadows ? Three of them ? Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If not, 
Shall those three castles patch my tattered coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And two dear things are one of double worth. 



A MEDLEY. 281 

And much I might have said, but that my zone 
Unmanned me : then the Doctors ! O to hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty plants 
Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane : but thou, 
Modulate me. Soul of mincing mimicry ! 
Make hquid treble of that bassoon, my throat ; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose 
A flying chai-m of blushes o'er this cheek, 
"Where they hke swallows coming out of time 
Will wonder why they came : but hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! " 

And in we streamed 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to end 
VVith beauties every shade of brown and fair, 
In colors gayer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glittered like a bed of flowers. 
How might a man not wander from his wits. 
Pierced through with eyes, but that I kept mii.q 

own 
Intent on her, who rapt In glorious dreams 
The second-sight of some Astraean age. 
Sat compassed with professors : they, the while, 
Discussed a doubt, and tossed it to and fro : 
A clamor thickened, mixed with inmost terms 
Of art and science ; Lady Blanche alone, 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments. 
With all her Autumn tresses falsely brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to sprmg. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : there 
One walked reciting by herself, and one 
Id ^his hand held a volume as to read. 



282 THE princess; 

And smoothed a petted peacock down with that : 

Some to a low song oared a shallop by, 

Or under arches of the marble bridge 

Hung, shadowed from the heat : some hid and 

sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter : others lay about the lawns, 
Of the older sort, and murmured that their 'May 
Was passing : what was learning unto them ? 
They wished to marry ; they could rule a house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often came 
Melissa, hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harmed not ; then day droopt ; the chapel 

bells 
Called us : we left the walks ; we mixt with those 
Six hundred maidens, clad in purest white, 
Before two streams of light from wall to wall, 
While the great organ almost burst his pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling through the Ci^>nrt 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms and silver Htanies, 
The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea I 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me; 
While my Uttle one, while my pretty one, sleeps 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 
Father will come to thee soon; 



A MEDLEY. 285 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west, 

Under the silver moon; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, ray pretty one, sleep 



/ 



in. 

MoRX in the white wake of the morning star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the court that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touched 
Above the darkness from their native East. 

There while we stood beside the fount, and 
watched 
Or seemed to watch the dancing bubble, approached 
MeHssa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep. 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
" And fly," she cried, " O fly, while yet you may ! 
My mother knows : " and when I asked her " how," 
*'My fault," she wept, "my fault! and yet not 

mine: 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me 1 
My mother, 'tis her wont from ni^ht to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they came ; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now. 
And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all the love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass you : 
Her countrywomen ! she did not envy her. 
Who ever saw such vild barbariaui '? 



•/b'4 THE princess; 

Girls ? — more like men ! ' and at these words the 

snake, 
My secret, seemed to stir within my breast ; 
And oh. Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she laughed : 

* O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 

Men ! girls, hke men ! why, if they had been men, 
You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus 
For wholesale comment.' Pardon, I am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful : ' men ' (for still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
' And so they are, — very like men indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for hours.' 
Then came these dreadful words out one by one, 

* Why — these — are — men : ' I shuddered : ' and 

you know it ! ' 

* O ask me nothing,' I said : ' And she knows too, 
And she conceals it ! ' So my mother clutched 
The truth at once, but with no word from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to inform 
The Princess : Lady Psyche will be crushed ; 
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly : 
But heal me with your pardon ere you go." 

" What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush ? ** 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven," 
He added, " lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, ' They mounted, Ganymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us further furlough : " and he went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought 

He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," Florian asked, 

How grew this feud betwixt tha right and left." 



A MEDLEY. '^Sb 

" O long agOj * slie said, " betwixt these two 

Division smoulders hidden : 'tis my mother, 

Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 

Pent in a crevice : much I bear with her : 

I never knew my father, but she says 

(God help her !) she was wedded to a fool ; 

And still she railed against the state of things. 

She had the care of Lady Ida's youth. 

And from the Queen's decease she brought her up 

But when your sister came she won the heart 

Of Ida : they were still together, grew 

(For so they said themselves) inosculated ; 

Consonant chords that shiver to one note : 

One mind in all things : yet my mother still 

Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories, 

And angled with them for her pupil's love : 

She calls her plagiarist ; I know not what : 

But I must go : I dare not tariy," and Ught 

As flies the shadow of a bird she fled. 

Then murmured Florian, gazing after her . 
" An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blushed again. 
As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
Not like your Princess crammed with erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow." 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter of the crane. 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My Princess, oh my Princess ! true she errs. 
But in her own grand way : being herself 
Three times more noble than threescore of men 
She sees herself in every woman else, 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me : for her, and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er she movei 



286 THE princess; 

The Samian Here rises and she speaks 

A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun.'* 

So saying, from the court we paced, and gained 
The tei-race ranged along the Northern front, 
And leaning there on those bakisters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gale 
That blown about the foUage underneath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 
Beat balm upon our eyeUds. Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning, " O hard task ! " he cried, 
" No fighting shadows here ! I forced a way 
Through soUd opposition, crabbed and gnarled. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice down. 
Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman. 
I knocked, and bidden, entered ; found her there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
The green malignant Hght of coming storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oiled. 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek I prayed 
Concealment : she demanded who we were, 
And why we came ? I fabled nothing feir, 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hushed amaze of hand and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance, 
She answered sharply that I talked astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the gate. 
And our three fives. True — we had hmed ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might harm 
The woman's cause. *■ Not more than now,' she saiti, 
So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was, ' Leave me to deal with that.* 
I spoke of war to come and many deaths. 
And she replied, her duty was to speak, 
And iuty duty, clear of consequences. 



A MEDLEY. 2b I 

I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I knew 

No rock so hard but that a little wave 

May beat admission in a thousand years, 

I recommenced ; ' Decide not ere you pause. 

I find you here but in the second place. 

Some say the third — the authentic foundress you. 

I olfer boldly : we will seat you highest : 

Wink at our advent : help my Prince to gain 

His rightful bride, and here I promise you 

Some palace in our own land, where you shall reign 

The head and heart of all our fair she- world, 

And your great name flow on with broadening time 

Forever.' Well, she balanced this a little, 

And told me she would answer us to-day, 

Meantime be mute : thus much, nor more, I gained ** 



" That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her ? wo should find the land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder ; " then she pointed on to where 
A double lull ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on through all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summoned to the porch we went. She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenhke he rolled 
A.nd pawed about her sandal. I drew near : 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure camo 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house : 
The Princess Ida seemed a hollow show, 
Her gay-furred cats a painted fantasy, 
Her coUege and her maidens empty masks, 
And I myself the shadow of a dream. 
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 



288 THE princess; 

My heart beat thick with passion and with awe, 
Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrowed to the hills. 

I rode beside her, and to me she said : 
*' O friend, we trust that you esteemed us not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." " No — not to her,** 
I answered, " but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seemed the thing yon 

say." 
*' Again ? " she cried ; " are you ambassadresses 
From him to me ? we give you, being strange, 
A license : speak, and let the topic die." 

I stammered that I knew him — could have 

wished — 
" Our king expects — was there no precontract — 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seem 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but longed 
To follow : surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him even to death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 

" Poor boy," she said, " can he not read — no 
books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games ? nor deals in that 
Which men dehght in, martial exercise ? 
To nurse a blind ideal, like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl ; 
As girls were once, as we ourselves have been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it. 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning here, 



A MEDLEY. 2S9 

To lift the woman's fallen divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haughtier smile 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my friend, 
At no man's beck, but know ourselves and thee, 

Yashti, noble Vashti ! Summoned out 
She kept her state, and left the drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms." 

" Alas ! your Highness breathes full East," I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know the Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a work 
To assail this gray preeminence of man ! 
You grant me license : might I use it ? think, 
Ere half be done, perchance your life may fail ; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing : might I dread that you, 
With only Fame for spouse and your ^at deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss. 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due, 
Love, children, happiness V " 

And she exclaimed, 
" Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild ! 
VATiat ! though your Prince's love were like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? 
Yon are bold indeed : we are not talked to thus : 
Yet will we say for children, would they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like them well . 
But children die ; and let me tell you, girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die : 
They with the sun and moon renew their light 
Forever, blessing those that look on them : 
Children — that men may pluck them from our 

hearts 
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 

VOL. I. 19 



290 THE princess; 

O — cHldren — there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err : nor would we work for fame ; 
Though she perhaps might reap the applause of 

Great, 
"Who learns the one pou sto whence after-handf 
May move the world, though she herself effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been, 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants, Hving, each, a thousand years. 
That we might see our own work out, and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answered nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange Poetrprincess with her grand 
Imaginations might at all be won. 
And she broke out, interpreting my thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you * 
We are used to that ; for women, up till this 
Cramped under worse than South-sea-isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynecaeum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot guess 
How much their welfare is a passion to us. 
I£ we could give them surer, quicker proof— 
O, if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death. 
We were as prompt to spring against the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf, as talk of it. 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 

She bowed as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blockf" 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shoot the woocib. 
And danced the color, and, below, siuo^ out 



A MEDLEY. 29l 

The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roared 
Before man was. She gazed a while and said, 
" As these rude bones to us, are we to her 
That wUl be." " Dare we dream of that," I asked, 
" AVhich wrought us, as the workman and his work 
That practice betters ? " " How," she cried, " you 

love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, 
A. golden broach : beneath an emerald plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." " And yet," I said, 
" Methinks I have not found among them all 
One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of that," 
She answered, " but it pleased us not : in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm. 
Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty. 
Nor willing men should come among us, learnt, 
For many weary moons before we came. 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your question now. 
Which touches on the workman and his work. 
Let there be light, and there was light : 'tis so : 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once. 
The birth of light : but we that are not all. 
As parts, can see but part^, now this, now that. 
And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and 

make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time ; 



292 THE princess; 

But In the shadow will we work, and mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league be}'oiiJ 
And o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, cami 
i)n tlowery levels underneath the crag. 
Full of all beauty. " O how sweet," 1 said, 
(For I was half oblivious of my mask,) 
" To linger here with one that loved us ! " " Yea, 
She answered, " or with fair philosophies 
That lift the fancy ; for indeed these fields 
Are lovely, loveUer not the Elysian lawns. 
Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw 
The soft white vapor streak the crowned towers 
Built to the Sun : " then, turning to her maids, 
•' Pitch our paviHon here upon the sward ; 
Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph : here she stood, 
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek. 
The woman-conqueror; woman-conquered there 
The bearded Victor of ten thousand hymns, 
And all the men mourned at his side : but we 
Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks, 
Many a hght foot shone hke a jewel set 
In the dark crag : and then we turned, we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in. 
Hammering and chnking, chattering stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff, 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward liis death and fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the lawns. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story; 



A MEDLEY. 233 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, bloAv, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, djmg. 

hark, hear ! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going; 
sweet and far, from clitf and scar, 
The horns of Elfland laintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying 

love, they die in ^on rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



IV. 



" There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound," 
Said Ida ; " let us down and rest : " and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
By every coppice-feathered chasm and cleft, 
Dropt through the ambrosial gloom to where below, 
No bigger than a glow-worm, shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she leaned on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent her hand, 
And bUssful palpitations in the blood. 
Stirring a sudden transport, rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and entered in, 
There leaning deep in broldered down we sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glowed 
JFruit, blossom, viand, amber wine and gold. 



294 THE princess; 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us ; lightliei 
move 
The minutes fledged with music ; " and a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

" Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ^ 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 



She ended with such passion that the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain 



Answered the Princess, " If indeed there haunt 

About the mouldered lodges of the Past 

So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men. 

Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool 

And so pace by : but thine are fancies hatched 

In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 

Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 



A MEDLEY. 293 

But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 
While down the streams that float us each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and rightSj 
Nor would I fight with ii'on laws, in the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; let be 
Their cancelled Babels: though the rough kex 

break 
The starred mosaic, and the wild goat hang 
Upon the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear 
A trumpet in the distance peahng news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow : " then to me ; 
•' Know you no song of your own land," she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retrospect. 
But deals with the other distance and the hues 
Of promise ; not a death's head at the wine." 

Then I remembered one myself had made 
What time I watched the swallow winging south 
From mine own land, part made long since, and 

part 
Now while I sang ; and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 



" O Swallow, Swallow, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 

" O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 



296 THE princess; 

" O were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and hf.r heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

" Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays . 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? 

" O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : 
5ay to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

" O tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of sununer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her 

mine. 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laughed with alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant ; for still my voice 
Rang false : but smiling, " Not for thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, rather, maid, 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us of the time 
When we made bricks in Eg^-pt. Knaves are men, 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 
And dress the victim to the olTering up, 
And paint the gates of llcll with Paradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor once ; 
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, . . .. 



A MEDLEY. 291 

A. rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

1 loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! but great is song 

Used to great ends : ourself have often tried 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dashed 

The passion of the prophetess : lor song 

Is duer unto freedom, force, and growth 

Of spirit, than to junketing and love. 

Love is it ? Would this same mock-love and this 

Mock-H}Tnen were laid up like winter bats, 

Till all men gi'ew to rate us at our worth, 

Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 

To be dandled, no, but li^dng wiUs, and sphered 

Whole in ourselves, and owed to none. Enough I 

But now to leaven play with profit, you. 

Know you no song, the true growth of your soil, 

That gives the manners of your countrywomen V " 

She spoke, and turned her sumptuous head with 

eyes 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 
Then while I dragged my brains for such a song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouthed flask had 

wrought, 
Or mastered by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning ; Psyche flushed and wanned and shook; 
The lily-like MeHssa drooped her brows ; 
"Forbear," the Princess cried; "Forbear, Sir," I; 
And heated through and through with wrath and 

love, 
I smote him on the breast ; he started up ; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sacked ; 
Melissa clamored, " Flee the death ! " " To horse I * 
Said Ida ; " home ! to horse ! " and fled, as flies 
4 troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk. 
When some one batters at the dovecote doors. 



298 THE princess; 

Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 

With Florian, cursing CjTil, vext at heart, 

In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 

X heard them passing from me : hoof by hoof, 

And every hoof a knell to my desires, 

Clanged on the bridge ; and then another shriek, 

*' The Head, the Head, the Princess, oh the Head ! ' 

For bUnd with rage she missed the plank, and 

rolled 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom : 
There whirled her white robe like a blossomed 

branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I gave, 
No more ; but woman-vested as I was. 
Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I caught her; 

then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the world, 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place, and stooped 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I gained the shore. 

There stood her maidens ghmmeringly grouped 
In the hollow bank. One reaching forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they cried " She 

hves ! " 
They bore her back into the tent ; but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes. 
Nor found my friends ; but pushed alone on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at length 
The garden portals. Two great statues. Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valvesi 
Of ox)eu-work in which the hunter rued 



A MEDLEY. 295 

His rash lutrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. 

A little space was left between the horns, 
Through which I clambered o'er at top with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue. 
Now poring on the glow-worm, now the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the bear had wheeled 
Through a great arc his seven slow suns. 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving through the uncertain gloom, 
Disturbed me with the doubt " if tliis were she," 
But it was Florian. " Hist, O hist," he said, 
" They seek us : out so late is out of rules. 
Moreover, ' seize the strangers ' is the cry. 
How came you here ? " I told him. " I," said he, 
" Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, returned. 
Arriving all confused among the rest. 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall, 
And, couched behind a Judith, underneath 
The head of Holofernes peeped and saw. 
Girl after girl was called to trial : each 
Disclaimed all knowledge of us : last of all, 
Melissa : trust me. Sir, I pitied her. 
She, questioned if she knew us men, at first 
Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not : 
And then, demanded if her mother knew. 
Or Psyche, she affimied not, or denied : 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, 
Easily gathered either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; she called 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face ; 
And I slipt out : but whither will you now i 



500 THE princess; 

And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both are fled. 
What, if together ? that were not so well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the dark." 

" And yet," I said, " you wrong him more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the clown, 
Though smocked, or furred and purpled, still the 

clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame 
That which he says he loves : for Cyril, howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinned in grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the water-lily starts and slides, 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Though anchored to the bottom, such is he." 

Scarce had I ceased, when from a tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, " Names." 
He, standing still, was clutched ; but I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of foot : 
Before me showered the rose in flakes ; behind 
I heard the puffed pursuer ; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hooked my ankle in a vine. 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And faUing on my face was caught and known. 

They haled us to the Princess, where she sat 
High in the hall : above her drooped a lamp, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head, 
Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each side 



A MEDLEY. 301 

Rowed toward her, combing out her long black hair 
Damp from the river ; and close beliind her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, sti'onger than men, 
Huge women, blowzed with health, and wind, and 

rain, 
And labor. Each was hke a Druid rock ; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and wailed about with mewa. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne ; and there beside, 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed. 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left. 
Bowed on her palms and folded up from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her so^ 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche, erect, 
*^tood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

" It was not thus, oh Princess, in old days : 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me, 
Your second mother : those wer^ gracious times. 
Then came your new friend : you began to change—* 
I saw it and gi'ieved — to slacken and to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turned your warmer currents all to her, 
To me you froze : this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love. 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of my own deserts. 
And partly that you were my civil head, 
And chieliy you were born for something great 
In which I might your fellow-worker be, 
When time should serve ; and thus a noble sohem* 
Grew up from seed we two long since had y owa : 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd, 



502 THE princess; 

Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 
We took this palace ; but even from the first 
You stood in your own light and darkened mine. 
What student came but that you planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in aU ? 
But still her hsts were swelled and mine were lean , 
Yet I bore up, in hope she would be known : 
Then came these wolves : they knew her : they 

endured, 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn. 
To tell her what they were, and she to hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye like mine, 
A hdless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I feared 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall hear of *<>• 
From Lady Psyche : ' you had gone to her, 
She told, perforce ; and winning easy grace, 
No doubt for sHght delay, remained among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant haste 
To push my rival out of place and power. 
But public use required she should be known ; 
And since my oath was ta'en for public use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watched them well, 
Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done ; 
And yet this day (though you should hate me for - 

it) 
I came to tell you ; found that you had gone, 
Ridden to the hills, she likewise : now, I thought, 
That surely she will speak ; if not, then I. 
Did she ? these monsters blazoned what they were, 
According to the coarseness of their kind, 
For thus I hear ; and known at last (ray work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame 



A MBDLET. 809 

(I grant In her some sense of shame,) she flies ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up youi-s, 
I, that have wasted here health, wealth and time 
And talents, I — you know it — I wiU not boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan. 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread.** 

She ceased : the Princess answered coldly, " Grood. 
Your oath is broken : we dismiss you : go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to ourselves." 

Thereat the Lady stretched a vulture throat, 
And shot from crooked hps a haggard smile. 
" The plan was mine. I built the nest," she said, 
" To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! " and stooped to 

updrag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt. 
Half-drooping from her, turned her face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, fiiU of prayer. 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out. 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rushed 
Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalked her face, an(| 

winged 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell 
Dehvering sealed despatches, wliich the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, tiU over brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 



804 THE PRINCESS ; 

When tlie wild peasant rights himself, the nek 

Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavens ; 

For anger most it seemed, while now her breast, 

Beaten with some great passion at her heart, 

Palpita.ted, her hand shook, and we heard 

In the dead hush the papers that she held 

Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet 

Sent out a bitter bleating lor its dam ; 

The plaintive cry jarred on her ire ; she crushed 

The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 

As if to speak, but, utterance failing her. 

She whirled them on to me, as who should say 

" Read," and I read — two letters — one her sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince youi 
way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son." 

The second was my father's, running thus : 
" You have our son : touch not a hair of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : though indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their Lords 
Tlirough all the world, and which might well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace down 
And we will do it, unless you send us back 
Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

" O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes and a hope 



A MEDLEY. 305 

The child of regal compact, did I break 

Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 

But venerator, zealous it should be 

All that it might be : hear me, for I bear, 

Though man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs, 

From the tlaxen curl to the gray lock a life 

Less mine than yours : my nurse would tell me of 

you; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the moon. 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you stooped to me 
From all high places, Hved in all fair hghts. 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south, 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wild-swan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glow-worm 

light 
The mellow breaker murmured Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reached you, had you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the enthironed 
Persephone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed. 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but this. 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 

The dvsrarfs of presage ; though when known, there 

grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in you I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled down 
And mastered, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Witliln me, that except you slay me here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you more 

VOL. I. 20 



806 THE PRINCESS ; 

Than growing boys their manhood ; dying lips, 
With many thousand matters left to do, 
Xhe breath of life ; oh, more than poor men wealth, 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, not mine — but 

half 
Without you, with you, whole ; and of those halves 
You worthiest ; and howe'er you block and bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 
Xhat it becomes no man to nurse despair, 
But in the teeth of clenched antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
Yet that I came not aU unauthorized, 
Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dashed 
Unopened at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seemed to wait behind her lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world with foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gathered together ; from the illumined hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gemlike eyes, 
And gold and golden heads ; they to and fi'o 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale, 
All open-mouthed, all gazing to the light, 
ISome crying there was an array in the land. 
And some that men were In the very -.vails. 
And some they cared not ; till a clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-ballt. 
And worse-con founded : high above them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace, she looked, the Head : but rising up 
Robed m the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 



A MEDLEY. 80" 

FIxt like a beacon-tower above tLe waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretched her arms 

and called 
Across the tumult, and the tumult fell : 

" What fear ye, brawlers ? am not I your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : / dare 
All these male thunderbolts : what is it ye fear ? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us, and they 

come: 
If not, — myself were like enough, oh o^rls. 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, 
Or, falling^, protomartyr of our cause, 
Die : yet I blame ye not so much for tear; 
Six thousand years of fear have made ye that 
From which I would redeem ye : but for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you — I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow morn 
We hold a great convention : then shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
With whom they deal, dismissed in shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame. 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum. 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour, 
Forever slaves at home and fools abroad ! " 

She, ending, waved her hands : thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved : then with a smile, that looked 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff 
When all the glens are drowned in azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said : 



808 THE princess; 

*' You have done well and like a gentleman, 
And like a prince : you have our thanks for ail : 
And you look well too in your woman's dress : 
Well have you done, and like a gentleman. 
You saved our life : we owe you bitter thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the ilood — 
Then men had said — but now — What hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you both ? — 
Yet since oiu* father — Wasps in our good hive, 
Y^'ou would-be quenchers of the light to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one hour ! 

You that have dared to break our bound, and gulled 
Our servants, wronged and Ked and thwarted us — 

1 wed with thee ! 1 bound by precontract 

Your bride, your bondslave ! not though all the 

gold 
That veins the world were packed to make your 

crown. 
And every spoken tongue should lord you ! Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us : 
I trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone ! we will not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates ! " 

In wrath she spake 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and addressed 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands, 
The weight of destiny : so from her face 
Ttey pushed us, down the steps, and through the 

court. 
And with grim laughter tlu^ust us out at gates. 

We crossed the street, and gained a petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I listened came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt : 
I seemed to move among a world of ghosts ; 



A MEDLEY. 30J) 

The Princess with her monstrons woman-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by side, 
The cataract, and the tumult, and the kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun, 
Set into sunrise : then we moved away. 



Thy voice is heard through rolling drums 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang : we thought her half-possessed, 
She struck such warbhng fury through the words *, 
And, after, feigning pique at what she called 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried lor war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale. 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
* Sir Ralph has got }'Our colors : if I prove 
Your knight and fight your battle, what for me ? " 
It chanced her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her Hke a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it " Fight," she said, 



310 THE princess; 

♦* And make us all we would be, great and good." 
tie kiiightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrowed from the hall, 
Arranged the favor and assumed the Prince. 



^ow scarce three paces measured from the mound 
*Ve stumbled on a stationary voice, 
And " Stand, who goes V " " Two from the pal- 
ace," I. 
" The second two : they wait," he said, " pass on ; 
His Highness wakes : " and one, that clashed in arms 
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake 
From blazoned lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seemed to hear, 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes 
A hsping of the innumerous leaf and dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death. 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh joung captains flashed their glittering 

teeth ; 
The huo^e bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew, 
And slain with laughter rolled the gilded Squire. 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with 
tears. 
Panted from weary sides, " King, you are free I 
We did but keep you surety for our son, 



A MEDLEY. 31 . 

If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge : *' 
For I was drenched with ooze, and torn with briers 
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel : 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm 
A whispered jest to some one near him, " Look, 
He has been among his shadows." " Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! (thus the kinj? 
Roared) make yourself a man to fight with men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left of faded woman-slough 
To sheathing splendore and the golden scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun that now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the northern hills. Here Cyril met us, 
A Httle shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon asked and given 
For stroke and song, resoldered peace, whereon 
Followed his tale. Amazed he fled away 
Through the dark land, and later in the night 
Had come on Psyche weeping : " then we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she lies, 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He showed a tent 
A stone-shot off: we entered in, and there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 
Pitifril sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak. 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from head tc 

foot. 
And pushed by rude hands from its pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the camp, 
A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 



812 THE princess; 

Then Florian knelt, and " Come,** he -whispered 

to her, 
** Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie not thus. 
What have you done but right ? you could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought. 
When fallen in darker ways." And likewise I : 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her too, 
Jn whose least act abides the nameless charm 
That none has else for me." She heard, she moved 
She moaned, a folded voice ; and up she sat. 
And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded over death 
In deathless marble, " Her," she said, " my 

friend — 
Parted from her — ^betrayed her cause and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye not your 

faith ? 
O base and bad I what comfort ? none for me t ** 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I pray 
Take comfort : hve, dear lady, for your child,'* 
At which she lifted up her voice and cried. 

" Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child. 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more I 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of care, 
Or sicken with ill usage, when they say 
The child is hers — for every little fault. 
The child is hers ; and they will beat my girl, 
Remembering her mother : oli my flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make her hard, 
And she wiU pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than were she 

dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there, 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, 
The horror of the shame among them all : 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 



A MEDLEY. SI 8 

And make a wild petition nigiit and day, 

Until they hate to hear me like a wind 

Wailing forever, till they open to me, 

And lay my Httle blossom at my feet, 

My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child : 

And I will take her up and go my way, 

And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 

Ah ! what might that man not deserve of me, 

^Vho gave me back my child ? " " Be comlbrted,' 

Said CljTil, " you shall have it : " but again 

She veiled her brows, and prone she sank, and so 

Like tender things that being caught feign death, 

Spoke not, nor stirred. 

By this a murmur ran 
Through all the camp, and inward raced the scouta 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at pai'le : and " Look you,** 

cried 
My father, " that our compact be fulfilled : 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs at you and 

man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him. 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and fire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turned to me : 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stonny time 
With our strange girl : and yet they say that still 
You love Iier. Give us, then, your mind at large j 
How say you, war or not ? " . 

" Not war, if possible, 
O King," I said, " lest from the abuse of war. 
The desecrated shiine, the trampled year. 
The smouldering homestead, and the household 

flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common wrong — 
A. SDioke go up through which I loom to her 



814 THE PRINCESS ; 

Three times a monster : now she lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then would hate 
(And every voice she talked with ratify it, 
And every face she looked on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this knot 
By gentleness than war. I want her love. 
What were I uigher this, although we dashed 
Your cities into shards with catapults ; 
She would not love ; — or brought her chained^ a 

slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 
Not ever would she love ; but brooding turn 
The book of scorn, till all my httle chance 
Were caught within the record of her wrongs, 
And crushed to death ; and rather. Sire, than this, 
I would the old God of war himself were dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills. 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, 
Or hke an old-world mammoth bulked in ice, 
Not to be molten out." 

And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you. Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game ; 
The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! Out ! for shame 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the score, 
Flattered and flustered, wins, though dashed with 

death 
He reddens what he kisses ; thus I won 
your mother, a good mother, a good wife. 



A MEDLEY. 315 

Worth winning ; but this firebrand — gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net, 
To trip a tigress vnth. a gossamer. 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier ? 

No: 
"What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when she rose 
The yesternight, and storming in extremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down 
Gagelike to man and had not shunned the death. 
No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, King, 
True woman : but you clash them all in one, 
That have as many diflerences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, one that, 
And some unworthily ; their sinless faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty. 
Glorifying clown and sat}T ; whence they need 
More breadth of culture : is not Ida right ? 
They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 
Severer in the logic of a life ? 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of Earth and Heaven ? and she of whom yov 

speak. 
My mother, looks as whole as some serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak the white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I say 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man. 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire, 
But whole and one : and take them all-in-all, 
Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly theirs 



816 THE princess; 

As dues of Nature. To our point : not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense,* 
Said Gama. " We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth : we did not rate liim then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you say : 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the rest, 
Our own detention, why the causes weighed, 
Fatherly fears — you used us courteously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land, 
You did but come as goblins in the night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor bussed the milking-maid| 
Nor robbed the farmer of his bowl of cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word upon it, 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, 
And speak with Arac : Arac's word is thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see us friends. 
You, Hkewlse, our late guests, if so you wiU, 
Follow us : who knows ? we four may build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reached 
White hands of farewell to my sire, who growled 
An answer which, half-muflled in his beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we Avitb *^he old king across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke 



A MEDLEY. JlJ 

Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 

In the old king's ears, who promised help, and 

oozed 
All o'er with honeyed answer as we rode ; 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews, 
Gathered by night and peace, with each hght air 
On our mailed heads : but other thoughts than 

Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares. 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the llowers 
With clamor : for among them rose a cry 
As if to greet the king ; they made a halt ; 
The horses yelled; they clashed their arms; the 

drum 
Beat ; merrily-blowing shrilled the martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us hghtly pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and the highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that played upon them, made them 

glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Giant's zone, 
That gUtter burnished by the frosty dark ; 
And as the fiery Smus alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, shone 
Their morions, washed with morning, as they came. 

And I that prated peac3, when first I heard • 
War-music, felt the blind wild beast of force 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man 
Stir in me as to strike ; then took the kin^ 
His three broad sons ; with now a wandering Laud 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A common hght of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from tlieir lips, and, ere the windy jest 
Had labored down within his ample lungs, 



818 THE princess; 

The genial giant, Arac, rolled himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words. 

" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he himself 
Your captive, yet my father wills not war : 
And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, war or no ? 
But then this question of your troth remains ; 
And there's a downright honest meaning in her ; 
She flies too high, she flies too high ! and yet 
She asked but space and fair play for her scheme 
She prest and prest it on me — I myself, 
What know I of these things ? but, life and soul. 
I thought her half right talking of her wrongs ; 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what of that ? 
I take her for the flower of womankind, 
And so I often told her, right or wrong. 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not : this is all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me swear it — 
'Sdeath ! — and with solemn rites by candle-Hght — 
Swear by St. something — I forget her name — 
Her that talked down the fifty wisest men ; 
She was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive your claim ; 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my father's will.** 

I lagged in answer, loth to render up 
My precontract, and loth by brainless war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper yet ; 
Till one of those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip, 
To prick us on to combat, " Like to like ! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's heart." 
A. taunt that clenched his pui'pose like a blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter-scoff". 
And sharp I answered, touched upon the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
" Decide it here : why not ? we are three to three." 



A MEDLEY. 819 

Then spake the third, " But three to three ! no 
more? 
No more, and in our noble sister's cause ? 
More, more, for honor : every captain waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that each 
May breathe liimself, and quick ! by overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled, die." 

" Yea," answered I, " for this wild wreath of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision ? if we fail, we fail, 
And if we win, we fail : she would not keep 
Her compact." " 'Sdeath ! but we will send to 

her," 
Said Arac ; " worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive through, 
And you shall have her answer by the word." 

" Boys ! " shrieked the old king, but vainher than 

a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for none 
Regarded ; neither seemed there more to say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates. 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim. 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life : three times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none appeared. 
He battered at the doors ; none came : the next, 
An awful voice within had warned him thence : 
The third, and those eight daughters of the plough 
Came sallying through the gates, and caught hig 

hair. 
And so belabored him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild : not less one glance he caught 
Thi'oujjh open doors oi Ida stationed there 



320 THE princess; 

Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Thougii compassed by two armies and the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and right and left 
Sucked from the dark heart of the long hills roll 
The torrents, dashed to the vale : and yet her will 
Bred wiU in me to overcome it or fall. * 

But when I told the king that I was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he clashed 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads : 
But overborne by aU his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in heat, 
Arid sware to combat for my claim till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden- wall : and likewise here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A columned entry shone and marble stairs, 
And great bronze valves, embossed with Tomyrw 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight. 
But now fast barred : so here upon the flat 
All that long morn the Usts were hammered up, 
And all that morn the heralds to and fro. 
With message and defiance, went and came ; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand. 
But shaken here and there, and rolling words 
Oration-like. I kissed it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the pangs we felt. 
What heats of indignation, when we heard 
Of those that Iron-cramped their women's feet ; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fii'e 



A MEDLEY. 321 

Where smoulder their dead despots ; and of those, — 

Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 

Their pretty maids in the runnini; flood, and swoope 

The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 

Made for all noble motion : and I saw 

That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 

With smoother men : the old leaven leavened all: 

Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights, 

Ko woman named : therefore I set my face 

Against all men and lived but for mine own. 

Far oiT from men I built a fold for them : 

[ stored it full of rich memorial : 

[ fenced it round with gallant institutes, 

And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey, 

And prospered ; till a rout of saucy boys 

Brake on us at our books, and marred our peace, 

Masked like our maids, blustering I know not what 

Of insolence and love, some pretext held 

Of baby troth, invahd, since my will 

Sealed not the bond — the stripUngs! — for their 

sport ! 
I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame these ? 
Or you ? or I V for since you think me touched 
In honor — what, I would not aught of false — 
Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood 
You draw from, fight ; you failing, I abide 
What end soever, fail you will not. Still 
Take not his life : he risked it for my own ; 
His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you do. 
Fight and fight well ; strike, and strike home. O 

dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, you 
The sole men to be mingled with our cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the after time. 
Your very armor hallowed, and your statues 
Reared, sung to, when, this gad-fly brushed aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to move 

VOL. I. 21 



822 THE PRINCESS *, 

With claim on claim from right to right, till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, know herself 
And knowledge in our own land make her free, 
And, ever following those two crowned twins, 
Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery grain 
Of Freedom broadcast over aU that orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern morn." 

Then came a postcnpt dashed across the rest. 
' See that there be no traitors in your camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust 
Since our arms failed — this Egypt-plague of men I 
Almost our maids were better at their homes, 
Than thus man-girdled here : Indeed I think 
Our chiefest coinfort is the httle child 
Of one unworthy mother ; which she left : 
She shall not have it back : the child shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed, 
This morning : there the tender orphan hands 
Felt at my heart, and seemed to charm from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world : farewell." 

I ceased ; he said : " Stubborn, but she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms 
And breed up warriors ! See now, though yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow conmion sense, the spindling king, 
This Gama swamped in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight the woman takes it 

up. 
And topples down the scales ; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all. 
Man for the field, and woman ibr tlie hearth : 
Man for the sword, and for the needle she : 
Man with the head, and woman with the heart : 
Man to coromand, and woman to obey ; 
All else confusion. Look you : the gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrill? 



A MEDLEY. 32S 

Fiom tUe to scullery, and her small goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair, while the fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you — she's yet a colt — 
Take, break her : strongly groomed and straitly 

curbed, 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the banthng scald at home, and brawl 
Their rights or ^vrongs like pot-herbs in the street. 
They say she's comely ; there's the fairer chance : 
/ like her none the less for rating at her ! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we. 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king • 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause, " take not his life : 
I mused on that wild morning in the woods. 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt win : ** 
I thought on aU the wrathful king had said. 
And how the strange betrothment was to end ; 
Then 1 remembered that burnt sorcerer's curse. 
That one shoidd fight with shadows, and should faU 
And like a flash the weird affection came : 
King, camp and college turned to hoUow shows ; 
I seemed to move in old memorial tilts. 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream ; 
And ere I woke it was the point of noon. 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed 
We entered in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier, like a wild horn in a land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 
The trumpet, and again : at which the storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears, 



-824 THE PRINCESS* 

And riders front to front, until they closed 

[n conflict with the crash of shivering points, 

And thunder. Yet it seemed a dream ; I dreamed 

Of fi^htlnc:. On his haunches rose the steed, 

And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 

And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 

Part sat hke rocks : part reeled but kept their seats: 

Part rolled on the earth and rose again and drew : 

Part stumbled, mixt with lloundering horses. Dowu 

From those two bulks at Arac's side, and down 

From Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail, 

The large blows rained, as here and everywhere 

lie rode the mellay, lord of the ringing hsts, 

And all the plain, — brand, mace, and shaft, and 

shield, 
Shocked, like an iron-clanging anvil banged 
With hammers ; till I thought, can this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins V if this be so. 
The mother makes us most — and in my dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies* eyes, 
And highest among the statues, statue-like, 
Between a cymbaled Miriam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 
A single band of gold about her hair. 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but she 
No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me fight. 
Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I drave 
Among the tliickest, and bore down a Prince, 
And Cyril one. Yea, let me make my dream 
All that I would. But tliat large-moulded man, 
His visage all agrin as at a wake. 
Made at me through the press, and staggering back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, camti 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud. 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, 
Aiid shadowing down the champaign till it strikes 



A MEDLEY. 325 

On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and 

splits. 
And twists the grain with such a roar that Earlh 
Reels and the herdsmen cry, for every thing 
Gave way before him : only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own right eye, 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him down : 
And Cyril seeing it, pushed against the PrinL-e, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 
And threw him : last I spurred ; I felt my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment hand to hand. 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse, we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade glanced ; 
I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth 
Flowed from me ; darkness closed me ; and I felL 



Home they brought her warrior dead: 
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Called him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior slept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face : 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Bose a nurse of ninety years. 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest caine her tear*— 
" Sweet my child, 1 Uve for thee." 



326' THE princess; 

VI. 

My dream had never died or lived again. 

As ia some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, bearing not I heard ; 
Though, if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often, that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seemed, or so they said to me, 
That all things grew more tragic and more strange 
That when our side was vanquished, and my Cciuse 
Forever lost, there went up a great cry. 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque 
And grovelled on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : th.^re on the roo6 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. 

" Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : the seed, 
The little seed they laughed at in the dark. 
Has risen and cleft the soU, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 

" Our enemies have fallen, have fallen ; they 
came; 
■JTie leaves were wet with women's tears: the 

heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand. 
They marked it with the red cross to the fall. 
And would have strown it, and are fallen themselves. 

" Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : they 
came. 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree I 
But we will make it fagots for the hearth| 



A MEDLEY. 321 

And shape It plank and beam for roof and floor, 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : thej 
struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor 

knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The gUttering axe was broken in their anus, 
Their arms were shattered to the shoulder blade. 

** Our enemies have fallen, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power ; and rolled 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

" And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose arms 
Championed our cause and won it with a day 
Blanched in our annals, and perpetual feast. 
When dames and heroines of the golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are won. 
Let them not lie in the tents, with coarse mankind 
nurses ; but descend, and proffer these, 
Tt3 brethren of our blood and cause, that there 
Lie bruised and maimed, the tender ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowled, and some bareheaded, on they came, 
rheir feet in flowers, her loveliest : by them went 



828 THE princess; 

The enamored air sighing, and on their curia 
From the high tree the blossom wavering fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of Yv^ht 
Shded, they moving under shade : but Blanche 
At distance followed : so they came : anon 
Through open field into the lists they wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, 
And followed up by a hundred airy does, 
Steps with a tender foot, hght as on air. 
The lovely, lordly creature floated on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; there stayed ; 
Knelt on one knee, — the chUd on one, — and prest 
Their hands, and called them dear deliverers, 
And happy waniors, and immortal names. 
And said, " You shall not lie in the tents, but here. 
And nursed by those for whom you fought, and 

served 
With female hands and hospitedlty.'* 

Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance» 
She past my way. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelmed and mute, and motionlessly pale. 
Cold even to her, she sighed ; and when she sa^w 
The haggard father's face and reverend beard ^ 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own son, shuddered, a twitch of pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and she said : 
" lie saved my life : ray brother slew him lor it** 
No more : at which the king in bitter scorn 
Diew from my neck the painting and the tress. 
And held them up : she saw them, and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory. 
When the good queen, her mother, shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche : 
And then once more she looked at my pale face : 



A MFDLEY. 829 

Till understanding all the foolish work 

Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, 

Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 

Her noble heart was molten in her breast ; 

She bowed, she set the child on the earth ; she laid 

A feeling linger on my brows, and presently 

" O Sire," she said, " he lives : he is not dead : 

O let me have him with my brethren here 

In our own palace : we wiU tend on him 

Like one of these ; if so, by any means, 

To lighten this great clog of thanks, that make 

Our progress falter to the woman's goal." 

She said : but at the happy word, *' he lives,** 
My father stooped, re-fathered o'er my wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen Ufe, 
With brow to brow like night and evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, wliile Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe, that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, 
Lay like a new-fallen meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother, and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach its fading innocent arms, 
And lazy Hngering fingers. She the appeal 
Brooked not, but clamoring out "Mne — mine- 
not yours. 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the child,'* 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouthed, 
And turned each lace her way : wan was her cheok 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye. 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard. 
Looked up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 



SZO THE TRINCESS; 

The mother, me, the child ; but he that lay 

Beside us, Cyril, battered as he was, 

Trailed himself up on one knee : then he drew 

Her robe to meet his lips, and down she looked 

At the armed man sideways, pitying, as it seemed. 

Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his face, 

Remembering his ill=-omened song, arose 

Once more through all her height, and o'er him 

grew 
Tall as a figure lengthened on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said : 

" O fair and strong and terrible 1 Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's mane I 
But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks, 
We vanquished, you the Victor of your wiU. 
What would you more ? give her the child ! remaia 
Orbed in your isolation : he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of these. 
The conmion hate, with the revolving wheel, 
Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis 
Break from a darkened future, crowned with fire, 
And tread you out forever : but howsoe'er 
Fixed in yourself, never in your own arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her. 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, 
Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately clasped with yours. 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could not kill, 
Give me it ; I wiU give it her." 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation rolled 



A MEDLEY. 331 

Dry flame, she listening ; after sank and sank, 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : " Pretty bud I 
Lily of the vale ! half-opened bell of the woods 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell ; 
These men are hard upon us as of old. 
We two must part : and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when 1 felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren breast 
In the dead prime : but may thy mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false, to me 1 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom " — here she kissed it : then — 
*' All ^ood go with thee 1 take it, Sir," and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands. 
Who turned half-round to Psyche as she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swam in thanks, 
Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot, 
And hugged and never hugged it close enough, 
And in her hunger mouthed and mumbled it. 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm, and added suppliantly ; 

" We two were friends : I go to mine own land* 
Forever ; find some other : as for me, 
I scarce am fit for your great plans ; yet speak to 

me. 
Say one soft word, and let me part forgiven.** 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. " Ida — 'sdeath 1 you blame the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me ! 
X am your warrior ; I and mine have fought 
Vour battle : kiss her ; take her hand, she weeps 



832 THE PRIXCESS; 

'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight tlirice o'er than seo 
it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground ; 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin, 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama said : 

" I've heard that there is iron in the blood. 
And I believe it. Not one word '? Not one ? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? not from me, 
Not from your mother, now a saint with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her say it — 

* Our Ida has a heart,' — just ere she died — 

* But see that some one with authority 

Be near her still,' and I — I sought for one — 

All people said she had authority — 

The Lady Blanche : much profit ! Not one word i 

No ! though your father sues : see how you stand 

Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights maimed, 

I trust that there is no one hurt to death. 

For your wild whim : and was it, then, for this, 

Was it for this we gave our palace up, 

Where we withdrew from suimner heats and state, 

And had our wine and chess beneath the planes, 

And many a pleasant hour with her that's gone, 

Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it kind ? 

Speak to her, I say : is this not she of whom. 

When first she came, all flushed you said to me, 

Now had you got a friend of your ow.'i age, 

Now could you share your thought ; now should 

men see 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walked with, she 
You talked with, whole nights long, up in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth, 
And right ascension, Heaven knows what ; arid now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word, 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, tlint 1 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay, 



A M3DLEY. 833 

You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one ? 

You will not ? well — no heart have you, or such 

As fancies, like the vermin in a nut. 

Have fretted all to dust and bitterness ! " 

So said the small king, moved beyond his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drained of her force 
By many a varying influence and so long : 
Down through her limbs a drooping languor wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 
In a still water : then brake out my sire. 
Lifting his gi'im head from my wounds : " O you, 
Woman, whom we thought woman even now. 
And were half-fooled to let you tend our son. 
Because he might have wished it — but we see 
The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, 
And think that you might mix his draught with 

death. 
When your skies change again : the rougher hand 
Is safer ; on to the tents : take up the Prince." 

He rose, and wliile each ear was pricked to attend 
A tempest, through the cloud that dimmed her 

broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and shone 
Through glittering drops on her sad friend. 

" Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, " embrace me, come. 
Quick, while I melt ; make reconcilement sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an hour : 
Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! 
Kiss and be friends like children being chid I 

1 seem no more : / want forgiveness too : 

I should have had to do with none but maids, 
That have no links with men. Ah false but dear, 
Dear traitor too much loved, why ? — why ? — Yet 



8S4 THE princess; 

Before these kings we embrace you yet once mox6 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust not love you less. 

And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son to nurse, to wait upon him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt to him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours shall havo 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times, each to her proper hearth ; 
"What use to keep them here, now ? grant my 

prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
'WTiich kills me with myself, and drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakling even as they are." 

Passionate teare 
Followed : the king replied not : Cyril said : 
" Your brother. Lady, — Florian, — ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him with the Prince.*' 
" Ay so," said Ida, with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws are broken : let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song 
And had a cousin tmnbled on the plain. 
Petitioned too for him. " Ay so," she said, 
♦' I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour ; 
We break our laws with* ease, but let it be." 
" Ay so ? " said Blanche : " amazed am I to hear 
Your Highness: but your Highness breaks with 

ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 'twas L 
I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind. 
And blocked them out ; but these men camo to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to win." 



A MEDLEY. 335 

So she, and turned askance a wintry eye : 
But Ida, with a voice that Hke a bell 
Tolled by an earthquake in a trembling tower 
Rang ruin, answered full of grief and scorn : 

" Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not one, but all, 
Not only he, but, by my mother's soul, 
^V^latever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 
Shall enter, if he wiU. Let our girls flit 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting us too, 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your likes. 
We brook no further insult, but are gone." 

She turned ; the very nape of her white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father charmed 
Her wounded soul with words ; nor did mine own 
Refiise her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors : to them the doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the vestal entry shrieked 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gained the hall, and there 
Bested : but great the crush was, and each base, 
To left and right, of those tall columns drowned 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers : at the further end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
Close by her like supporters on a shield 
Bow-backed with fear : but in the centre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes ; amazed 
They glared upon the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, save 
WTien armor clashed or jingled, while the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel, 



836 THEi princess; 

That o*er the statues leaped from head to head, 

Now fired an anirry Pallas on the helm, 

Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on flame, 

And now and then an echo started up, 

And shuddering fled from room to room, and died 

Of fright in fiir apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs and through 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left me in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
TUl happier times ; but some were left of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside the walls, 
Walked at their will, and every thing was changed. 



Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 

shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But, O too fond, when have I answered thee ? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 
I love not hollow check or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die I 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed: 
I strove against the stream and all in vain: 
Let the ereat river take me to the main: 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 
Ask me no more. 



▲ MEDLEY. 887 



vn. 



So was their sanctuary violated, 
So their fair college turned to hospital ; 
At first with all confusion : by and by 
Sweet order lived again with otlwir laws : 
A kindlier influence reigned ; and everywhere 
Low voif'es with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick : the maidens came, they 

talked, 
They sang, they read : till she not fair, began 
To gather lio;ht, and she that was, became 
Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel officer, 
Like creatures native unto gracious act, 
And in their own clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. 
Old studies failed : seldom she spoke ; but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field : void was her use ; 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night. 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world : so fared she gazing there ; 
^o blackened all her world in secret, blank 
And waste it seemed and vain ; till down she came 
And found fair peace once more among the sick. 

And twilight dawned; and mom by mom the 
lark 
Shot up and shrilled in flickerinj^ gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage ot hie : 

voi^ u 22 



888 THE princess; 

And twiliglit gloomed; and broader grown the 

bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven 
Star after star arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay 
Quite sundered from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me nor the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with her oft 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, but left 
Her child among us, willing she should keep 
Court-favor : here and there the small bright head, 
A Hght of healing, glanced about the couch, 
Or through the parted silks the tender face 
Peeped, shining in upon the wounded man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in themselves 
To wile the length from languorous hours and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seemed it strange that 

soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Joined at her side : nor sti-anger seemed that hearts 
So gentle, so employed, should close in love, 
Than when two dew-drops on the petal shake 
To the same sweet air and tremble deeper down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtained 
At first with Psyche. Not though Blanche harl 

sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields, 
She needs must wed him for her own good name ; 
Not though he built upon the babe restored ; 
Nor though she liked him, yielded she, but feared 
To incense the Head once more ; till on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche. On her foot she hung 
A moment and she heard, at which her face 
A. little flushed and she past on ; bit each 



A MEDLEY. SSS 

Assumed fix)m thence a half-consent involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred halls 
Held carnival at will, and flpng struck 
"With showers of random sweet on maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my claim, 
Nor did mine own, now reconciled ; nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat ! 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a ^aper off, and shriek 
** You are not Ida ; " clasp it once again, 
And call her Ida, though I knew her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony. 
And call her hard and cold which seemed a truth : 
And still she feared that I should lose my mind. 
And often she believed that I should die : 
TiU out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the aU-weary noons. 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks 
Throbbed thunder through the palace floors, oi 

called 
On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days. 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief. 
And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken love. 
And lonely Ustenings to my muttered dream, 
And often feehng of the helpless hands. 
And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek — > 
From all a closer interest flourished up 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; irail at first 



840 THE princess; 

And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 
But such as gathered color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but wellnigh close to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and stormed 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they crammed 
The forum, and half-crushed among the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cowered. On the other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowla, 
And half the wolTs-milk curdled in their veins, 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them paused 
Hortensia, pleading : angry was her face. 

I saw the forms : I knew not where I was : 
They did but look like hoUow shows ; nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder seemed : I moved : I sighed : a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold. 
So drenched it is with tempest, to the sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and uttered whisperingly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in trance, 



A MEDLEY. 341 

That hears his burial talked of by his friends, 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She turned ; she 

paused , 
She stooped ; and out of languor leapt a cry, 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death ; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and aU 
Her falser self slipt from her like a robe. 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Than in her mould that other, when she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with love ; 
• And down the streaming crystal dropt, and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides. 
Naked, a double light in air and wave. 
To meet her Graces, where they decked her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of mine. 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she glided forth, 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept. 
Filled through and through with Love, a happy 
sleep. 

Deep in the ni^t I woke : she, near me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 



" Now sleeps the crunson petal, now the white, 
Nor waves the cj^ress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphjTy font : 
The fire-fly wakens : waken thou with me. 

" Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

" Now lies the Earth aU Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 



342 THE princess; 

" Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

" Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." 

I heard her turn the page ; she found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read ; 

" Come down, oh maid, from yonder mountain 
height : 
What pleasure lives In height, (the shepherd sang,) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hUls V 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 
To gUde a sunbeam by the blasted pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come. 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he. 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize. 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats. 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the Silver Horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine. 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice. 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven faUs 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of danghng water-smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Ajise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 



A MEDLEY. Hfi 

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet ; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying througli the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees." 

So she low-toned ; while with shut eyes I lay 
Listening ; then looked. Pale was the perfect face 
The bosom with long sighs labored ; and meek 
Seemed the fuU lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had failed 
In sweet humility ; had failed in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she still were loth, 
She stiU were loth to peld herself to one, 
That wholly scorned to help their equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. 
She prayed me not to judge their cause from her 
That wronged it, sought far less for truth than 

power 
In knowledge : something wild within her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nursed me there from week to week . 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a g^jl — 
" Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce I 
When comes another such ? never, I think. 
Till the Sun drop dead from the signs.'* 

• Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands. 
And her great heart through all the faultftd Past 
"Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird 
That early woke to feed her little ones 
Bent from a dewy breast a cry for light : 
She moved, and at tier feet the yolume felL 



844 THE princess; 

" Blame not thyself too nmch," I said, " nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise or sink 
Together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal. 
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands — 
If she be small, shght-natured, miserable, 
How shall men grow ? but work no more alone 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up, but drag her down — 
Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 
Within her — let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and be 
All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is not undeveloped man, 
But diverse : could we make her as the man, 
Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference : 
Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 
The man le more of Avoman, she of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summed in all their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing each, 
Distinct in individualities, 
But like each other even as those who love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : 



A MEDLEY. 345 

Then reiffn the world's great bridals, chaste and calm 
Then springs the crowning race of humankind. 
May these things be I " 

Sighing she spoke, " I feai 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each iulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 
The single pure and perfect animal, 
The two-celled heart, beating with one full stroke. 
Life." . 

And again sighing she spoke : "A dream 
That once was mine 1 what woman taught you this ? " 

"Alone," I said, " from earlier than I know, 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, 
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death, 
Or keeps his winged affections clipt with crime : 
Yet was there one through whom I loved her, one 
Not learned, save in gracious household wa}'s. 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men, 
Who looked all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved 
And girdled her vnth music. Happy he 
With such a mother ! faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 
Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fefl. 
He shall not blind his soul with clay." 



846 THE PRINCESS, 

" But I,*" 
Said Ida, trermilously, " so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with words : 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I seora 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 
You cannot love me." 

" Nay, but thee," I said, 
** From year-long poring on thy pictured eyes, 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw 
Thee woman through the crust of iron moods 
That masked thee from men's reverence up, and 

forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now 
Given back to life ; to life indeed, through thee, 
Indeed I love : the new day comes, the light 
Dearer for nio;ht, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts are dead. 
My haunting sense of hollow shows : the change, 
This truthful change in thee has killed it. Dear, 
Look up and let thy nature strike on mine 
Like yonder morning on the bhnd half- world ; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon my brows ; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to come 
Keels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, 
I waste my heart in signs : let be. My bride, 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end. 
And so through those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee ; come, 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself. 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me." 



A MEDLEY. 341 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I ^ve you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it rose : 
The words are mostly mine : for when we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 
« I wish she had not yielded 1 " then to me, 
" What, if you drest it up poetically ? " 
So prayed the men, the women ; I gave assent : 
Yet how to bind the scattered scheme of seven 
Together in one sheaf? What style could suit ? 
The men required that I should give throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we bantered Uttle Lilia first : 
The women — and perhaps they felt their power, 
For something in the ballads which they sang, 
Or in their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seemed to wrestle with burlesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close — 
They hated banter, wished for something real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 
Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime ? 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? 
Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 
Betwixt the mockers and the reahsts : 
And I, betwixt them both, to please them both. 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal. 
And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touched her; and she sat, she plucked the 

grass. 
She flung it from her, thinking : last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
•* You — tell ud what we are ; " who might have tuldt 



848 THE princess; 

For she was crammed with theories out of books, 
But that there rose a shout : the gates were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarminn; now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these : we climbed 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys half in light and half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of peace : 
Gray halls alone among their massive groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; the seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, " and there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off. 
And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, 
Some patient force to change them when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd — 
But yonder, whiff 1 there comes a sudden heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight. 
The little boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a school-boys' barring out ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they are. 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them, 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 
As some of theirs — Gk)d bless the narrow seas I 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad.'* 



A MEDLEY. M 

" Have patience," I replied, " ourselves are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe -wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, 
The sport han-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience I Give it time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand that guides.** 

In such discourse we gained the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and looked 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shouldered genial Englishnwin, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none ; 
Fair-haired and redder than a windy morn ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now addressed to speech—' 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer 
From slope to slope through distant ferns, and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset ; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king ! Why should not these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a year 
To let the people breathe ? Sc tkrice they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they streamed away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness charmed : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, 



850 THE PKENCESS; A MEDLEY. 

Perchance upon the future man : the walls 
Blackened about us, bats wheeled, and owls 

whooped, 
And gradually the powers of the night, 
That range above the region of the wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up 
Through all the silent spaces of the worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well pleased we 
went. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Long lines of clifF breaking have left a chasm : 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazel wood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Philip Ray the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play*d 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: 
In this the children play'd at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next. 
While Annie still was mistress ; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 



352 ENOCH ARDEN. 

* This is my house and this my little wife.' 

* Mine too,' said Philip ' turn and turn about : * 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made 
Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out ' I hate you, Enoch,' and at this 
The little wife would weep for company. 

And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes. 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost. 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie : and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuUer in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch- Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas ; 
And all men look'd upon him favorably : 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May 
He purchased his own boat, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 



ENOCH ARDEN. S53 

Went nutting; to the hazels. Philip stay*d 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb'd the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand. 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd. 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toll ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew*d. 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes. 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were known. 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down. 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering, 
vol.. I. 'i^ 



354 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, he loved, a beggar : then he pray'd 
* Save them from this, whatever comes to me.* 
And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go V 
There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun. 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 

t 



ENOCH ARDEN. 855 

Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder ? go 
This voyage more than once ? yea twice or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry. 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs. 
Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike. 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not tvith brawhng opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 



3bG ENOCH ARDEN. 

Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said 
* Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it.* 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle ' and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry, when I come home again. 
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go.' 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl. 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
^fusing on him that used to fill it for her, . 
Hears and not hears, and lets it ov.erfiow. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 357 

At length she spoke * O Enoch, you are wise; 
And yet foi* all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more/ 

* Well then,' said Enoch, ' I shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.' 

But when the last of those last moments came, 

* Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again, 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 

Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it.' 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness. 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said 

* Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should the child 
Remember this ? ' and kiss'd him in his cot. 

But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 



358 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding ' what would Enoch say V * 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-bom and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless, 
Whether her business often call'd her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most. 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird .escaping suddenly, 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her). 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
^ Surely ' said Philip ' I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort ; ' therefore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, 



EXOCH AEDEN. 859 

Fresh fi*om the burial of her little one. 
Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly 

* Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.* 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd reply 

* Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! ' half abash'd him ; yet unask'd. 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 

' I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 
And leave you lonely V not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious mornin^ hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 
This is the favor that I came to ask.' 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer'd ' 1 cannot look you in the face ; 



S60 ENOCH ARDEN. 

I seem so foolish and so broken down. 

When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 

And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 

But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me : 

He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 

l^ot kindness such as yours.' 

And Philip ask'd 
* Then you will let me, Annie ? * 

There she turn'd. 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately. 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books, and everyway. 
Like one who does his duty by his own. 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish. 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 
Or conies from the down, and now and then. 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her. 
Out of ftiU heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Ph'dip was her children's all-in all ; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 



lira 



ENOCH AEDEN. 36 1 

To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with hi_ 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Going we know not where : and so ten years, 
Since' Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood. 
And Annie would go with them ; then they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to him 
* Come with us Father Philip' he denied; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to go, 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was not Annie with them ? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing ' let me rest ' she said : 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and turaultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and beat or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 



^63 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said 
Lifting his honest forehead ' Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood.* 

* Tired, Annie ? ' for she did not speak a word. 

* Tired ? ' but her face had fall'n upon her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 

* The ship was lost ' he said ' the ship was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite ?' And Annie said 

* I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary.' 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 

* Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first came there, 
I know that it will out at last. O Annie, 

It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 

That he who left you ten long years ago 

Should still be living ; well then — let me speak : 

I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 

I cannot help you as I wish to do 

Unless — they say that women are so quick — 

Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 

A father to your children : I do think 

They love me as a father : I am sure 

That I love them as if they were mine own ; 

And I believe, if you were fast my wife. 

That after all these sad uncertain years. 

We might be still as happy as God grants 

To any of His creatures. Think upon it : 

For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care. 

No burthen, save my care for you and yours : 

And we have known each other all our lives, 

And I have loved you longer than you know.' 



ENOCH ARDEN. *63 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke : 
•You have been as God's good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask ? * 

* 1 am content ' he answer'd ' to be loved 
A httle after Enoch.' ' O ' she cried 
Scared as it were ' dear Philip, wait a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! ' Philip sadly said 

* Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little.' ' Nay * she cried 

* I am bound : you have my promise — in a year; 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ? ' 
And Philip answer'd ' I will bide my year.' 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose, 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently * Annie, when I spoke to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are free.' 
Then Annie weeping answer'd ' I am bound.' 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words. 
That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again, 
And there he stood once more before her face, 



864 EXOCH ARDEN. 

Claiming her promise. * Is it a year ? ' she ask*d. 

*,Yes, if the nuts' he said ' be ripe again : 

Come out and see.' But she — she put him off — 

So much to look to — such a change — a month — 

Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 

A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 

Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 

Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 

* Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.* 

And Annie could have wept for pity of him j 

And yet she held him on delayingly 

With many a scarce-believable excuse, 

Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 

Till half-another year had shpt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too, 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho* he often look'd his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign ' my Enoch is he gone V * 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart. 



EXOCH ARDEN. 369 

Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 

* Under a palmtree.' That was nothing to her : 
No meaning there : she closed the book and slept : 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 

Under a palmtree, over him the Sun : 

* He is gone ' she thought ' he is happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 

The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 
" Hosanna in the highest ! " * Here she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him 

* There is no reason why we should not wed.' 

* Then for God's sake,' he answer'd, ' both our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once.' 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed, 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path. 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear. 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state. 
Being with child : but when her child was born. 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd. 
Then the new mother came about her heart. 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously sail'd 
The ship ' Good Fortune,' tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 



r 



969 ENOCH ARDEN. 

And almost overwelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her hom6-voyage : at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows : 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of ' breakers ' came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars. 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Kich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of pahn, a hut, 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 367 

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 
Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's warning ' wmt.' 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes. 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world, 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed themselves in 

Heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no saiL 



.368 ENOCH ARDEN. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafv lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves. 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone. 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fili'd the shores 



ENOCH ARDEN. 369 

With elamOT. Downward from his mountain gorge 
Stept the long-haii-'d long-bearded solitary, 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd, 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long-bouuden tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 
Whom, when their casks were fiU'd they took aboard: 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 
Scarce credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it : 
And clothes they gave him and free passage home ; 
But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his county, or could answer him, 
K question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays. 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermor© 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro* all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 
And that same morning officers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to anyone, 
But homeward — home — what home ? had he a 

home V 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon. 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro* either chasm, 
Where either haven opea'd on. the deeps. 



370 ENOCH AKDEN. 

Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the xrorld in gray; 
Cut off the length of liighway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down. 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking ' dead or dead to me 1 * 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Kor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port,- 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 371 

And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : anyone, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller : only when she closed 
'Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost* 
He, shakmg his gray head pathetically, 
Kepeated muttering ' cast away and lost ; * 
Again in deeper inward whispers ' lost ! ' 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
*If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy.' So the thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him tbrth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him. 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. 
The latest house to landward ; but behind. 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
Flourish 'd a little garden square and wall'd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it: 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, if 

griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 



372 ENOCH ARDEN. 

For cups and silver on the bumisli'd board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd : 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe. 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness^ 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love,— 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom. 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him„ aud uiuiui ouL upou th<& wasl^. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 373 

And there be would have knelt, but that hiskneea 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

* Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence? 

God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 

A Httle longer ! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these ? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never : no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So Uke her mother, and the boy, my son.' 

There speech and thought and nature faU'd a 
Httle, 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his soUtary home again. 
All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 

* Not to tell her, never to let her know/ 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea. 
Kept him a living soul. ' This miller's wife * 
He said to Mriam ' that you told me of. 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives ? * 

* Ay ay, poor soul * said Miriam, ' fear enow I 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort ; ' and he thought 

* After the Lord has call'd me she shall know,, 

1 wait His tmo,' aaU fincw.h atU. hini.iieI4 



374 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Scorning an alms, to work -whereby to live. 
Almost to all thinjrs could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks. 
That brought the stinted commerce of those days; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself. 
Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking ' after I am gone. 
Then may she learn I loved her to the last/ 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said 

* Woman, 1 have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.' 

* Dead ' clamor'd the good woman ' hear him talk I 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.' 

* Swear ' added Enoch sternly * on the book.' 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 

* Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? * 

* Know him ? ' she said ' I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
Held his head high-, aad- cared for no man, he.* 



ENOCH ARDEN. 375 

Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 

* His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live ; 
I am the man.' At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 

* You, Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be.' Enoch said again 

* My God has bow'd me down to what I am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken me; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 

Who married — but that name has twice been 

changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard. 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven. 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 
Saying only ' See your bairns before you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied. 

* Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand. 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that 1 died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw ^*^ 

So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in bleseing her and praying for her. 



57ft ENOCH ARDEN. 

And tell my son that I died blessing him» 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us any thing but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come,, 
I am their father ; but she must not come. 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood, 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be ; 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it. 
And I have borne it with me all these years. 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall gee him^ 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her : 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he.* 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
Tliat once again he roU'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea. 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad 
Crying with a loud voice ' a sail ! a sail ! 



So past the strong Iieroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom, seen a costlier fuueraL 

M-aa QM vol.. i. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OP 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 

n 
POST LAUBEATE, ETC. 



COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES. 



TOLUUB IX. 



BOSTON: 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS 

1866. 



It is my wish that with Messrs. Ticknor and Fields 
alone the right of publishing my books in America should 

^^ ALFRED TENNYSON. 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME JL 



FAGB 

In Memoriam 5 

Maud 105 

The Brook 154 

The Letters 161 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington ... 162 

The Daisy 170 

To the Kev. F. D. Maurice 174 

Will 175 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 176 

The Grandmother's Apology 178 

Sea Dreams 185 

Tithonus 194 

Idylls of the King 197 

Additional Poems. 

Aylmer's Field 337 

Northern Farmer 361 

The Vovage . . ' 366 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 369 

The Flower" 369 

Requiescat 370 

The Sailor-Boy 371 

The Islet 372 

The Ringlet 373 

A Welcome to Alexandra 375 

Ode sung at the Opening of the International 

Exhibition 376 

A Dedication 377 

The Captain 377 

Three Sonnets to a Coquette 379 

On a Mom-ner 381 

Song 382 

Song 383 

Experiments. 

Boadicea 884 

In Quantity 389 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank 

Verse 390 

Appendix. 

The Hesperides , , 895 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Strong Son of Grod, immortal Love, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believmg where we cannot prove ! 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo ! thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 

Thou madest man, he knows not why ; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, holiest manhood, ihou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not how j 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 

They have their day and cease to be ; 

They are but broken lights of thee, 
And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 



6 IN MEMORIAM. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge ia of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music, as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 

We mock thee when we do not fear ; 

But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seemed my sin in me ; 

What seemed my worth since I began ; 

For merit hves from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries. 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth. 

And in my wisdom make me wise. 

1849. 



IN ME MORI AM 

A. H. H. 
OBIIT MDCCCX2CZXII. 



I HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may nse on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years, 
And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand through time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief, lest both be drowned. 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss ; 
Ah 1 sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast : 
" Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn.** 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the underlying dead. 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head ; 

Thy roots are wi-apped about the bones. 



m MEMORIAM. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 

And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O, not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale I 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom. 

And gazing o'a thee, sullen tree, 

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood, 

And grow incorporate into thee. 



III. 

O SORROW, cruel fellowship I 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death ! 
O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy lying hp ? 

" The stars," she whispers, " bhndly run ', 
A web is woven across the sky ; 
From out waste places comes a cry, 

And murmurs from the dying sun : 

"And all the phantom. Nature, stands, — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A holloT7 echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 

Embrace her as my natural ^ood ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 



m MEMORIAM. 



IV. 



To Sleep I give my powers away, 
My will is bondsman to the dark ; 
I sit within a helmless bark, 

And with my heart I muse, and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now, 

That thou shouldst fail from thy desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire 

" What is it makes me beat so low ? ** 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 

Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, 

That grief hath shaken into frost I 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darkened eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

•* Thou shalt not be the fool of loss I " 



I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel, 
For words, like nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er. 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which these infold 

Is given in outline and no more. 



IJO IN MEMORIAM. 

VI- 

One writes, that " Other friends remain* 
That " Loss is common to the race,'*— 
And common is the commonplace, 

And vacant chafl' well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoever thou be, 

Who pledgest now thy gallant son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath stilled the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor, while thy head is bowed. 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day. 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O, somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest 'ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking " this will please him best,'" 
She takes a ribbon or a rose ; 



m MEMORIAM. It 

For he will see theip on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turned, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future Lord 
Was drowned in passing through the ford, 

Or killed in falling from his horse. 

O, what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good ? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood, 
And unto me, no second friend. 



vn. 

Dare house, by which once more I stand, 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasped no more, — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep. 
And like a ^ilty thing I creep 

At earliest^morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again. 

And ghastly through the drizzling rain 

On the baJd street bre^s the blank day. 



VIII. 

A HAPPY lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well, 
Who lights, and rings the gateway bell. 

And learns her gone, and far from home, 



1:2 IN MEMORIAM. 

He saddens, all the ma^c light 

Dies off at once from bower and haH, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet, 
The field, the chamber, and the street 

For all is dark, where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she fostered up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee, 
And this poor flower of poesy, 

Which, little cared for, fades not yet 

But since it pleased a vanished eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb. 
That if it can it there may bloom. 

Or dying there at least may die. 



IX. * 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean plains. 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er ! 

So draw him home to those that mourn, 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruflle thy mirrored mast, and lead 

Through prosperous floods his holy urn I 

AH night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 



IN MEMORIAM. 13 

As our pure love, through early light 
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks 1 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prowj 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 

My friend, the brother of my love 1 

My Arthur 1 whom I shall not see 
Till all my widowed race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me 1 



I HEAR the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife ; 

And travelled men from foreign lands ; 

And letters unto trembling hands ; 
And, thy dark freight, a vanished life. 

So bring him : w€ have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : oh, to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God, 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 

Should gulf him fathom deep in brine ; 
And hands so often clasped in mine 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



14 IN MEMORIAM. 



Calm is the mom, -without a sound, 
Calm as to suit a cahner grief, 
And only through the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 

And on these dews that drench the furze. 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great plain, 

That sweeps, with all its autumn bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers, 

To mingle with the bounding main : 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 
These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 

If any cahn, a cahn despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, 

And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 



XII. 

Lo I as a dove when up she springs. 

To bear through Heaven a tale of woe. 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go : I cannot stay ; 

I leave this mortal ark behind, 

A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cMs, and haste away 



IN MEMORIAM. |5 

O'er ocean mirrors rounded large, 

And reach the glow of southern skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise, 
"And linger weeping on the marge. 

And sapng, " Comes he thus, my friend ? 

Is this the end of all my care ? " 

And circle moaning in the air : 
" Is this the end ? Is this the end ? " 

And forward dart again, and play 
. About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn 
That I have been an hour away. 



Teabs of the mdower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these, 

Which weep a loss forever new, 

A void where heart on heart reposed ; 
And, where warm hands have pressed and 
closed. 

Silence,, till I be alent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come, Time, and teach me many years 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things seem. 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 



16 IN MEMORIAM. 

My fancies time to rise on wing, 

And glance about the approaching sails, 
As though they brought but merchants' bale% 

And not the burthen that they bring. 



XIV. 

If one should bring me this report. 

That thou hadst touched the land to-day, 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe, 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half divine ; 
Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain. 

And how my life had drcoped of late. 
And he should sorrow o'er my state, 

And marvel what possessed my brain ; 

And 1 perceive no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame. 
But found him all in aU the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 



XV. 

To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping day; 
The last red leaf is whirled away. 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 17 

The forest cracked, the waters curled, 

The cattle huddled on the lea ; 

And wildly dashed on tower and tree 
The sunbeam strikes along the world ; 

And but for fancies, which aver 

That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher, 

And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A loominfr bastion frinired with fire. 



XVI. 

What words are these have fallen from me 7 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast, 

Or sorrow such a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or storm ; 

But knows no more of transient form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 

lliat holds the shadow of a lark 

Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she sink ? 
And stunned me from my power to thinV,^ 

And all my knowledge of myself ; 

VOL. II. 2 



18 m MEMORIAM. 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fiises old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 



Thou comest, much wept for; such a breeze 
Compelled thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Through circles of the bounding sky ; 

Week after week : the days go by : 
Come quick, thou bringest aU I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam. 
My blessing, like a line of light. 
Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark ; 
And bahny drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done. 

Such precious relics brought by thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widowed race be run. 



XVIII. 

'TIS weU, 'tis something, we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of hia native land. 



m MEMORIAM. 



n 



Tia little ; but it looks in truth 

As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest, 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come, then, pure hands, and bear the head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep ; 
And come, whatever loves to weep, 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah ! yet, even yet, if this might be, 

I, falling on his faithful heart, 

Would, breathing through his lips, impart 
The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer mind. 
Treasuring the look it cannot find, 

The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darkened heart that beat no more ; 

They laid him by the pleasant shore. 
And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills, 
The salt sea-water passes by. 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hushed nor moved along ; 
And hushed my deepest grief of all, 
When, filled with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls : 
My deeper anOTish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 



20 IN MEMORIAM. 



XX. 



The lesser griefs, that may be said, 

That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

^Vho speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fulness from the mind 
" It will be hard," they say, " to find 

Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain freeze ; 

For by the hearth the children sit 

Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath, 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit ; 

But open converse is there none. 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

" How good ! how kind ! and he is gone." 



XXI. 

1 BiNG to him that rests below, 

And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take tlie grasses of the grave, 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then. 

And sometimes harshly will he speak : 
*' This fellow would make weakness weak, 

And melt the waxen hearts of men." 



m MEMOBIAM. 21 

Another answers, " Let him be ; 

He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth : " Is this an hour 
For private sorroAv's barren song, 
^Vhen more and more the people throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

« A time to sicken and to swoon, 

When science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon ? ** 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 

Ye never knew the sacred dust ; 
I do but sing because I must, 

And pipe but as the linnets sing. 

And one is glad ; her note Is gay, 

For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stolen away. 



The path by which we twain did go, 

Which led by tracts that pleased ufl weD, 
Through four sweet years arose and fell, 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow. 

And we with singing cheered the way, 
And crowned with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went. 

And glad at heart from May to May. 



22 IN MEMORIAM. 

But where the path we walked began 
To slaut the fifth autumnal slope, 
As we descended, following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow feared of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 

And spread his mantle dark and cold ; 
And wrapped thee formless in the fold, 

And dulled the murmur on thy lip ; 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, though I walk in haste ; 
And think that, somewhere in the waste, 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 



xxin. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 

Or breaking into song by fits ; 

Alone, alone, to where he sits. 
The Shadow cloaked from head to foot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame, 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, " how changed from where it ran 
Through lands where not a leaf was dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The murmur of a happy Pan : 

When each by turns was guide to each, 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught, 
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought, 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 



TS MEMORIAM. 23 

And all we met was fair and good, 

And all was good that Time could bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 



Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To miany a flute of Arcady." 



xxrv. 

And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dashed with wandering isles of night 

If all was good and fair we met, 

This earth had been the Paradii»e 
It never looked to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so great ? 

The lowness of the present state. 
That sets the past in this relief ? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far ; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not, when we moved therein ? 



XXV. 

1 KNOW that this was Life, — ^the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared ; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 



24 IN MEMORIAM. 

Bat this it was that made me more 
As light as carrier-birds in air : 
I loved the weiglit I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of Love ; 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 

"When mighty Love would cleave in twain 

The lading of a single pain, 
And part it, giving half to him. 



Still onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

AnJ 'f that eye which watches guilt 

AnJ qoodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the mouldered tree, 

And towers fallen as soon as built, — 

O, if indeed that eye foresee, 

Or see, (in Him is no before,) 
In more of life true life no more, 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the mom 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 



XXVII. 

I ENVY not, in any moods, 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The Hnnet bom within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods: 



IN MEMOBIAM. 85 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfettered by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 

The heart that never ])lighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth, 

Nor any want-begotten rest, 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

*T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at aU. 



xxvin. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ 
The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hill 

Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 

From far and near, on mead and moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good-wiU, good-will and peace, 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wished no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those beUa again • 



26 IN MEMORIAM. 

But ttey my troubled spirit rule, 

For they controlled me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touched with joy, 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 



XXIX. 

With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease. 

How dare we keep our Christmas eve ; 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To ennch the threshold of the night 
With showered largess of deUght, 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly-boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss their yearly due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas hearth j 
A rainy cloud possessed the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gambolled, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching alL 



m MEMOBIASC 27 

We paiised : the winds were in the beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter land ; 
And in a circle hand m hand 

Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We sung, though every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year ; impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 

Upon us : surely rest is meet : 

" They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet," 
And silence followed, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " They do not diCi 

Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
Nor change to us, although they change ; 

** Kapt from the fickle and the frail, 

With gathered power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil. 

** Bise, happy mom I rise, holy mom I 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night : 
O Father ! touch the east, and light 

The light that shone when Hope was bom.** 



XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his chamel-cave. 

And home to Mary's house returned, 
Was this demanded, — ^if he yearned 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 



) m MEMORIAM. 

" Where wert thou, brother, those four days? • 
There lives no record of reply, 
Which, telling -what it is to die, 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met. 

The streets were filled with jo}'ful sound ; 
A solemn gladness even crowned 

The purple brows of Ohvet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ 1 
The rest remaineth unrevealed ; 
He told it not ; or something sealed 

The lips of that Evangelist. 



XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And he that brought bim back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the li\dng brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

AH subtle thought, all curious fears, 

Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
"What souls possess themselves so pure, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 



m MEMORIAM. 29 



XXXIII. 

O THOU that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reached a purer air, 
Whose faith has centre everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays. 
Her early Heaven, her happy views; 
Nor thou with shadowed hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith through form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good. 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See, thou that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 



XXXIV. 

My own dim life should teach me this, 
That life shall live forevermore, 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were Grod to such as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to choose 
Of things all mortal, or to uso 

A little patience ere I die. 



so IN MEMOBIAM. 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace, 

Like birds the charming serpent draws, 
To drop head-foremost m the jawa 

Of vacant darkness, and to cease. 



XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 

Should murmur from the narrow house : 
"The cheeks drop in ; the body bows ; 
Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : ' 

Might I not say? " yet even here, 

But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive : * 

But I should turti mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea, 

The sound of streams that, swift or slow, 
Draw down -3]onian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer, with a sigh, 
" The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and more, 

Half dead to know that I shall die." 

O mfi 1 what profits it to put 

An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut. 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods. 

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 

Had bruised the herb and crushed the grape, 
And basked and battened in the woods. 



IN MEMORIAM. 31 



XXXVI. 

Though truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 

Where Truth in closest words shall fail, 
When Truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf. 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef. 



XXXVII. 

Urania speaks with darkened brow : 

" Thou pratest here where thou art least; 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice, than thou ; 

" Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries j 



32 IN MEMORIAM. 

" For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues ; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying hps is all he said,) 

'• I murmured, as I came along, 

Of comfort clasped in truth revealed ; 

And loitered in the master's field, 
And darkened sanctities with song." 



With weary steps I loiter on, 

Though always under altered skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace Uves. 

If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits rendered free, 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all unffrateful to thine ear. 



XXXIX. 

Could we forget the widowed hour, 
And look on Spirfts breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower I 



IN MEMORIAM. 83 

When crowned with blessing she doth rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender eyes ; 

And doubtful joys the father move, 

And tears are on the mother's face, 
As parting, -with a long embrace, 

She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach, 

Becoming, as is meet and fit, 

A link among the days, to knit 
The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 

A life that bears immortal fruit 

In such great offices as suit 
The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her oM fireside 
Be cheered with tidin^^s of the bride 1 

How often she herself return. 

And tell them all they would have told. 

And bring her babe, and make her boast, 
Till even those that missed her most 

Shall count new things as dear as old 1 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 
Till growing winters lay me low f 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscovered lands. 



XL. 

Tht spirit, ere our fatal loss. 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, 

As flies the lighter through the gross. 

Vol. II. 3 



84 IN MEMORIAM. 

But thou art turned to something strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly 1 yet that this could be — 

That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee : 

For though my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear impUed in death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. 

The bowlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet oft, when sundown skirts the moor, 

An inner trouble I behold, 

A spectral doubt which makes me cold, 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Though following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have come to thee, 
Through all the secular to be, 

But evermore a life behind. 



1 VEX my heart with fancies dim : 

He still outstripped me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I ranked with him. 

And so may Place retain us still. 

And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mmd and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves, but knows not, reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows ? 



m MEMORIAM. 



XLU. 



If Sleep and Death be truly one. 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Through all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on ; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world smce life began : 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time> 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning souL 



How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and more ; 

But he forgets the days before 
Grod shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanished, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out, at times, (he knows not whence,) 

A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long, harmonious years 

(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 



86 m MEMORIAM. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 

O turn thee round, resolve the doubt, 
My o;uardian angel wiU speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 



XLIV. 

The baby new to earth and sky, 

What thne his tender palm is pressed 
.\gainst the circle of the breast. 

Has never thought that " this is I : " 

But as he grows he gathers much, 

And learns the use of " I," and " me," 
And finds " I am not what I see. 

And other than the things I touch : " 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may begin, 
As through the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 

Which else were fruitless of their due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 



XLV. 

We ranging down this lower track, 

The path we came by, thorn and flower, 
Is shadowed by the growing hour. 

Lest hfe should fail in looking back. 

So be It : there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the tomb. 

But clear from marge to marge shall bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past ; 



m MEMORIAM. 37 

A lifelong tract of time revealed ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days ordered in a wealthy peace, 
And those five years its richest field. 

O Love ! thy p^o^^nce were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far. 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 



XL VI. 

That each, who seems a separate whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Eemerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 

Enjoying each the other's good ; 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away. 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

" Farewell 1 We lose ourselves in light" 



XL VII. 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow bom, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed, 

Then these were such as men might scorn : 



8& TS MEMORIAM. 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 

She takes, when harsher moods remit, 
What slender shade of doubt may flit, 

And makes it vassal unto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words ; 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 

But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XL VIII. 

From art, from nature, from the schools, 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shivered lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall breathe. 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 

But blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break. 

The tender-pencilled shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, 
Ay me ! the sorrow deepens down, 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 

XLIX. 

Be near me when my light is low. 

When the blood creeps, and the nerves pri<jk 



IN MEMORIAM. 39 

And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 
And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 

Is racked with pangs that conquer trust ; 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry. 

And men the flies of latter spring, 
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 

To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would hide ? 

No inner viienesa that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame. 
See with clear eye some hidden shame, 

And I be lessened in his love ? 

1 wrong the grave with fears untrue : 

Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great Death ; 

The dead shall look me through and through. 

Be near us when we chmb or fall : 

Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours. 

To make alloAvance for us all. 



40 TS MEMOBIAM. 

LI. 

I CANNOT love thee as I ought, 

For love reflects the thing beloved ; 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song," 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
" Thou canst not move me from thy sidOi 

Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears ? 
What record ? not the sinless years 

That breathed beneath the Syrian blue : 

" So fret not, like an idle girl, 
1 That life is dashed with flecks of sin. 

I Abide : thy wealth is gathered in. 

When Time hath sundered shell from pearL" 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foohsh noise, 

Who wears his manhood hale and green : 

And dare we to this fancy give. 

That had the wild oat not been sown, 
The soil, left ban^en, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a man may live ? 

O, if we held the doctrine sound 

For life outliving heats of youth, 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good : define it well : 

For fear divine Philosophy 

Should push beyond her mark, and be 
Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



m MEMOBIAM. 41 



O, YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not any thing ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off— at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? ' 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 

LIV. 

The wish, that of the living whole 

No life may fail beyond the grave. 
Derives it not from what we hav® 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 

That Nature lends such evil drearcto ? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 



4!S 



IN MEMORIAM. 



I falter wnere I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upou the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope through darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 

LV. 

" So careful of the type ? " but no. 

From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, " A thousand types are gone; 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest tliine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I brmg to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seemed so fair. 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who rolled the psalm to wintry skies. 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer. 

Who ti'usted God was love indeed. 
And love Creation's final law — 
Though Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shrieked against his creed — 

Who loved, who suffered countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or sealed within the iron hills V 

No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime. 
That tare each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music matched with him. 



IN MEMORIAM. 43 

life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless I 
"What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veU, behind the veil. 

LVI. 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song : 
Peace ; come away : we do him wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my fi'iend is richly shrined; 

But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 

One set slow bell vdW seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever looked with human eyes. 

1 hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
" Adieu, adieu," forevermore . 



In those sad words I took farewell : 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 

Of hearts that beat from day to day, 
Half conscious of their dying clay. 

And those cold crypts where they shall cease.* 

rhe high Muse answered : " Wherefore grieTO 
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear 'i 



44 IN MEMORIAM. 

Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 



LVIII. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and half of life j 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside, 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move, 
Nor will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I'll have leave at times to play 

As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 

With so much hope for years to come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell what name were thine. 



LIX. 

He passed ; a soul of nobler tone : 

My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere. 
She finds the baseness of her lot. 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 

She sighs amid her narrow days. 
Moving about the household ways. 

In that dark house where she was bom. 



IN MEMOBIAM. 4& 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 

And tease her till the day draws by ; 
At night she weeps, " How vain am 1 1 

How should he love a thing so low ? " 



LX. 

If, in thy second state sublime, 

Thy ransomed reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

The perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below, 

How dimly charactered and slight, 

How dwarfed a growth of cold and night, 

How blanched with darkness, must I grow I 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore. 

Where thy first form was made a man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakspeare love thee more. 



LXI. 

ThCihgh if an eye that's downward cast 

Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the past ; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
WTien he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies. 
Or in the light of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 



4S IN MEMORIAM. 



LXIl. 



Yet pity for a horse o'erdiiven, 

And love in which my hound haa part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart, 

In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these, 

As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I weep. 
As, unto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 



Lxni. 

Dost thou look back on what hath been, 
As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began, 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 

And grasps the skirts of happy chance, 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known, 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 

Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire j 



IN MEMORIAM. 47 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He played at counsellors and kings, 

With one that was his earKest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea, 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

" Does my old friend remember me ? '* 



LXIV. 

Sweet soul I do with me as thou wilt ; 
I liill a fancy trouble-tost 
^ With " Love's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt.'* 

And in that solace can I sing. 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing ; 

Since we deserved the name of friends, 
And thine eifect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee, 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



LXV. 

Tou thought my heart too far diseased • 
You wonder when my fancies play, 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleasedT 



48 IN MEMORIAM. 

The shade by which my life was crossed, 
Which makes a desert in the miud, 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided through the land, 
"W^iose jest among liis friends is free* 
A\Tio takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand ; 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 
His inner day can never die, 

His night of loss is always there. 



LXVI. 

When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest. 
By that broad water of the west, 

There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears. 
As slowly steals a silver flams 
Along the letters of thy name. 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away ; 

From off my bed the moonlight dies : 
And closing eaves of wearied eyes 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 



IN MEMORIAM. 49 



LXVII. 



When in the down I sink my head, 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my 

breath ; 
Sleep, ■ Death's twin-brother, knows not 
Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walked forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with dew, 

And all the bugle breezes blew 
Reveill^e to the breaking mom. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
1 find a trouble in thine eye, 
Which makes me sad, I know not why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee 

LXVIII. 

I DREAMED there would be Spring no more, 
That Nature's ancient power was lost : 
The streets were black with smoke and frost, 

They chattered trifles at the door. 

I wandered from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs ; 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

1 wore them like a civic crown. 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns, 

From youth and babe and hoary hairs: 
They called me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns. 

VOL. II. 4 



50 m M£MORIAM. 

They called me fool, they called me child : 
I found an angel of the night : 
The voice was low, the look was bright^ 

He looked upon my crown and smiled ; 

He reached the glory of a hand. 

That seemed to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief j 

The words were hard to understand. 



I CANNOT see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint, 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawning doors, 
And shoals of puckered faces drive ; 
Dark bulks that tumble half ahve. 

And lazy lengths on boundless shores ; 

Till all at once, beyond the will, 
I hear a wizard music roll. 
And through a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 



LXX. 

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 

In which we went through summer France. 



IN MEMORIAM. 5l 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold seiise of wrong 

That so my pleasure may be wliole ; 

While now we talk, as once we talked 

Of men and minds, the dust of change, 
The days that grow to something strange, 

In walking as of old we walked 

Beside the river's wooded reach, 

The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 



LXXI. 

BiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar white, 

And lash with storm the streaming pane ? 

Day, when my crowned estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Wmch sickened every hving bloom, 

And blurred the splendor of the sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 

With thy quick tears that make the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fiinges to the shower ; 

Who mightst have heaved a windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, played 
A checker- work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet looked the same. 



52 IN MBMORIAM. 

As wan, as chill, as wild, as now ; 

Day, marked as with some hideous crime, 
When the dark hand struck down through 
time, 

And cancelled nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou mayst thy burdened brows 

Through clouds that drench the morning 

star, 
And whirl the ungarnered sheaf afar. 

And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 

Cumb thy thick noon, disastrous day ; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray. 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 



LXXII. 

So many worlds, so much to do, 

So little done, such things to be. 
How know I what had need of thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? 

Tlie fame is quenched that I foresaw. 

The head hath missed an earthly wreath ; 
I curse not nature ; no, nor death. 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or wiU be dim, with weeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

O hoDow wraith of dying fame. 

Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name. 



ZS MEMORIAM. 53 



As sometimes in a dead man's face, 

To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness hardly seen before 

Comes out, — to some one of his race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than 1 can see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid. 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



LXXIV. 

I LEAVE thy praises unexpressed 

In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guessed ; 

What practice, howsoe'er expert 

In fitting aptest words to things. 

Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I caxe not, in these fading days, 

To raise a cry that lasts not long. 

And round thee with the breeze of song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perished in the green. 

And, while we breathe beneath the sun, 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that misht have been. 



54 EN MEMORIAM. 

So here sliall silence guard thy fame ; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
^VTiate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 



LXXV. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpened to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten through 
The secular abyss to come. 
And lo 1 thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last. 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 
And what are they when these remain 

The ruined shells of hollow towers ? 



LXXVI. 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him, who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 

Foreshortened in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; 

Or, when a thousand moons shall wane, 



m MEMORIAM. 65 

A. man upon a stall may find, 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 

A grief, — then changed to something else, 

Sung by a long forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darkened ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than fsune, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



LXXVII. 

Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas hearth, 
The silent snow possessed the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas eve ; 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost 

As in the winters left behind. 

Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic pictures breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who showed a token of distress ? 
No single tear, no mark of pain : 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 

grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 

No, — mixed with all this mystic framej 
Her deep relations are the same, 

Bat with long use her teajrs are dry. 



5^ IN MEMORIAM. 



LXXVIII. 

** More than my brothel's are to me," — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 
I know thee of what force thou art, 

To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 

As moulded like in nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curled 

Through all his eddying coves ; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffered vowg, 

One lesson from one book we learned, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turned 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine. 

But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 



LXXIX. 

If any vague desire should rise, 

That holy Death, ere Arthur died. 
Had moved me kindly from his side, 

And dropped the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, 

The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought, 

But stayed in peace with Grod aud man. 



IN MEMORIAM. 57 

I make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burden of the weeks, 
But turns his burden into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and save, 
Unused example from the grave, 

Keach out dead hands to comfort me. 



LXXX. 

Could I have said while he was here, 
" My love shall now no further range, 
There cannot come a mellower change, 

For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 
What end is here to my compleiint ? 
This haunting whisper makes me faint, 

" More years had made me love thee more.** 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
" My sudden frost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain. 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 



LXXXI. 

I WAGE not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and face ; 

No lower life that earth's embrace 
May breed with him can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moA^ng on. 

From state to state the spirit wttlks ; 

And these are but the shattered stalks 
Or ruined chrysalis of one. 



58 IN MEMORIAM. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth ; 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that gamers in my heart ; 
He put our Uves so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 



LXXXII. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new year, delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong, 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropi)ing-wells of fire. 

O thou, new year, delaying long, 

Delay' st the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 



LXXXIII. 

When I contemplate, all alone, 

The life that had been thine below, 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 50. 

I see thee sitting crowned with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, 

On aJl the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on, 
When thou shouldst link thy life with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Eb,d babbled " Uncle " on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cj'press of her orange-flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least 'desh-e, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honored guest. 

Thy partner in the flowery walk 

Of letters, genial table-talk, 
Or deep dispute, and gracefiil jest : 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden lulls 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct, by paths of growing powers, 

To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 

Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Lea\ing great legacies of thought. 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe ; 



6^0 IN MEMORIAM. 

What time mine own might also flee, 

As linked with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal, 

And he that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant ? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content ? 



LXXXIV. 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrowed most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this wluch is our common grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 

Be dimmed of sorrow, or sustained, 
And whether love for him have drained 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 
Through lij^ht reproaches, half expressed. 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 



IN MEMORIAM. 61 

My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

Grod's finger touched him, and he slept 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal stat«, 
In circle round the blessed gate. 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him through the blissful climes. 
And showed him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remained, whose hopes were dim. 

Whose hfe, whose thoughts, were little worth, 
To wander on a darkened earth. 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

O friendship, ec^ual-poised control, 

O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost I O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands, 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, though left alone, 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses decked 

With gifts of grace that might express 
All comprehensive tenderness, 

All-subtilizing intellect 



62 IN MEMORIAM. 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 

That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused the shock through all my Itfe, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

I woo your love : I count it crime 

To mourn for any overmuch ; 

I, the divided haLf of such 
A friendship as had mastered Time ; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 

Eternal, separate from fears. 

The all-assuming months and years 
Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 

And Spring that swells the narrow brooks 
And Autumn with a noise of rooks, 

That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 

Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness yearns to speak : 
"Aiise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 



IN MEMORIAM. 63 

" I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless s}'mpathy with pain ? '* 

And lightly does the whisper fall : 

" 'Tis hard for thee to fathom this ; 
I triumph in conclusive bhss, 

And that serene result of all.'* 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say ; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play, 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 

That these things pass, and I shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, oh my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 

I, clasping brother-hands, aver 

I could not, if I would, transfer 
The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 

The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first frieuilship, equal powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine that cannot but deplore. 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no nK)re, 



64 IN MEMORIAM. 

My heart, though widowed, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another hving breast. 

Ah I take the imperfect gift I brin^, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 



LXXXV. 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 

That rollest from the gorgeous glocMn 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 

Through all the dewy-tasselled wood. 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

. The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 
111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas, 

On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where, in yonder orient star, 

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 



I PASSED beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown ? 
I roved at random through the town. 

And saw the tumult of the halls; 



m MEMORIAM. Q^ 

And heard once more In college fanes 

The storm their high-built organs make, 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazoned on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant shout, 
The measured ])ulse of racing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 

The same, but not the same ; and last, 
Up that long walk of limes I passed, 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt 

Another name was on the door : 
I lingered ; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 

That crashed the glass and beat the floor ; 

Where once we held debate, a band 

Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 

But send it slackly from the string ; 
And one would pierce an outer nng, 

And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last, the master-bowman, he 

Would cleave the mark. A willing ear 
We lent him. "WTio, but hung to hear 

The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point with power and grace. 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face, 

VOL. II. 5 



36 IN SfEMORIAM. 

And seem to lift the form, and slow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Mchael Augelo. 



LXXXVII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 

Rings Eden through the budded quicka. 
O, tell me where the senses mix, 

O, tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I, — my harp would prelude woe, — 
I cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 



LXXXVIII. 

Wjtch-elms, that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down, 

My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town 1 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixed in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from brawling court* 
And dusky purlieus of the law. 



IN MEMORIAM. 67 

O joy to him, in this retreat, • 
Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking through the heat 1 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 

The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears 1 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 

About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 

A guest, or happy sister, sung, 

Or here she brought the harp, and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon : 

Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding lull to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme. 
Discussed the books to love or hate, 
Or touched the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if I praised the busy town, 
He loved to rail against it still. 
For " ground in yonder social miU, 

We rub each other's angles down, 

" And mer^e," he said, " in form and gloss, 
The picturesque of man and man." 
We talked : the stream beneath us ran, 

The wine-flask lying couched in moss, 



68 IN MEMORIAM. 

Or cooled within the glooming wave, 

And last, returning from afar, 

Before the crimson-circled star 
Had fallen into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, 

We heard behind the woodbine veil 
Tlie milk that bubbled in the pail. 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 

LXXXIX. 

He tasted love with half his mind. 

Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind ; 

That could the dead, whose dpng eyes^ 

Were closed with wail, resume their life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear : 
To talk them over, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who passed away, 

Behold their brides in other hands : 
The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not peld them for a day. 

Yea, though their sons were none of these, 
Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion worse than death, and shake 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 

WTiatever change the years have wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



IN MEMORIAM. fS 



XC. 



When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 

And rarely pipes the mounted thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Corae, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplished years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe with many roses sweet 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That npple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night, 

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And like a finer liaht in li^ht. 



XCI. 

If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it vain. 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, though it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, though it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And though the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning true, 



70 m MEMOBIAM. 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments, 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 

XCII. 

1 SHALL not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land 

Where first he walked when clasped ra clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 

But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb ; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 

The wish too strong for words to name j 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 



xcni. 

How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold. 
Should be the man whose thought would 
hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, Uke them, thou too canst say. 

My spirit is at peace mth. all. 



IN MEMORIAM. ^ 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 
Imaginations cabn and fair, 
The memorj' like a cloudless air, 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din. 

And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 

xciv. 

By night we lingered on the lawn. 
For under foot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers bum 

Unwavering : not a cricket chirred : 
The brook alone far oflf was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wheeled or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

While now we sang old songs that pealed 

From knoll to knoU, where, couched at ease, 
The white kine glimmered, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 

Withdrew themselves from me and night. 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 

Of that glad year which once had been, 
In those fallen leaves which kept their green, 

The noble letters of the dead : 



72 m MEMORIAM. 

And strangely on the silence broke 

The sUent'-speaking words, and strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 

On doubts that drive the coward back, 
And keen through wordy snares to track 

Snggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 

The dead man touched me from the past, 
And all at once it seemed at last 

His living soul was flashed on mine, 

And mine in his was wound, and whirled 
About empyreal heights of thought, 
And came on that which is, and caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

iEonian music measuring out 

The steps of Time— -the shocks of Chance,— 
The blows of Death. At length my trance 

Was cancelled, stricken through with doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech, 
Or even for intellect to reach 

Through memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk revealed 

• The knolls once more where, couched at ease, 
Tlie white kine glimmered, and the trees 
• Laid their dark arms about the field ; 

And sucked from out the distant gloom, 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore. 

And fluctuate all the still perfume. 



m MEMORIAM. 78 

And ffattering fresMier overhead, 

Rocked the full-follaged ehns, and swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said 

" The dawn, the dawn," and died away ; 
And East and West, without a breath, 
Mixed their dim lights, like life and death, 

To broaden into boundless day. 

xcv. 

you say, but with no touch of scorn. 

Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not ; one indeed I knew 

In many a subtile question versed, 
Who touched a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds, 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gathered strength. 
He would not make Ins judgment blmd, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night, 
W^hich makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
"WTiile Israel made their gods of gold, 

Although the trumpet blew so loud. 



^74 IN MEMORIAM. 



XCVI. 



My love has talked with rocks and trees, 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crowned, 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life, — 

I looked on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two, — ^they dwelt with eye on eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
Their meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never passed away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart, 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Though, rapt in matters dark and deep, 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far. 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A withered violet is her bliss ; 
She knows not what his greatness is ; 

For that^ foraU, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 



m MEMORIAM. jJf 

Her faith is fixed and cannot move, 

She darkly feels him great and wise, 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand : I love." 



XCVII. 

You leave us ; you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sailed below, 
When I was there with him ; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, 
That City. All her splendor seems 
No liveher than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 

En wind her isles, unmarked of me : 
I have not seen, I wiU not see 

Vienna : rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarrattheheelsof men, and prey 

By each cold hearth, and sadness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings ; 

And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 



76 IN MEMOBIAM. 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, 
He told me, lives in any crowd, 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



XCVIII. 

KiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud with voices of the birds, 
So thick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest through thy darkling red 
On yon swollen brook that bubbles £ 
By meadows breathing of the past, 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming care. 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth, 
Memories of bridal, or of birth, 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O, wheresoever those may be. 

Betwixt the slumber of the poles. 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 

They know me not, but mourn witi me. 



IN MEMORIAM. 77 

XCIX. 

I CLIMB the hill : from end to end, 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold. 

Or low morass and whispering reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

Nor hoarj' knoll of ash and haw 

That hears the latest linnet trill, ^ 
Nor quarry trenched along the hill, 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right through meadowy curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Un WATCHED the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved that beech will gather brown, 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, 

Ray round with flames her disk of seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 



'■fS IN MEMORIaM. 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 

The brook shall babble down the plain, 
At noon, or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 

And flood the haunts of hern and crake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



CI. 



We leave the well-beloved place 

Where first we gazed upon the sky; 
The roofs that heard our earliest cry 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home. 

As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse iove 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung. 



iif MEMORIAM. 7Q 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 

Thy feet have strayed in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bowers, 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day, 

And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

Tlmt will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and farms ; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To (me pure image of regret. 



CII. 

On that last night before we went 

From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dreamed a vision of the dead, 

"Which left my after morn content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall, 

And maidens with me ; distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills, 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The haiJ with harp and carol rang. 

They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veiled, to which they sang ; 

And which, though veiled, was known to me. 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
Forever : then flew in a dove, 

And brought a summons from the sea : 



80 IN MEMORIAM. 

And when tliey learnt that 1 must go, 

They wept and wailed, but led the way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the Hood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff that made the bank's, 
We glided, winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still, as vaster grew the shore, 

And rolled the floods in grander space. 
The maidens gathered strength and grace, 

And presence lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watched them, waxed in every limb ; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck^ 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck ; 

Whereat those maidens, with one mind. 
Bewailed their lot ; I did them wrong : 
" We served thee here," they said, " so long, 

And wilt thou leave us now behind ? " 



m MEMORIAM. ^ 

So rapt I was, they could not win 

An answer from my lips, but he 

Keplying, " Enter likewise ye 
And go with us : " they entered in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steered her toward a crimson cloud 

Tliat landlike slept along the deep. 



cm. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still ; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below, 

That wakens at this hour of rest •* 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

But all is new, unhallowed ground. 



CIV. 

This holly by the cottage-eave. 

To-night, ungathered, shall it stand : 
"We live within the stranger's land, 

Anl strangely falls our Christmas eve. 

Our fathers dust is left alone 

And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine Dlows 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

VOL. n 6 



82 IN MEMORIAM. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 

The genial Lour with mask and mime ; 
For change of place, like growth of time, 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 

By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm: 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Through which the spii-it breathes no more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast, 

Nor harp be touched, nor flute be blown : 
No dance, no motion, save alone 

What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



cv. 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 



m MEMORIAM. 83 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that licre we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife; 
King in the nobler modes "of hfe, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The flilthless coldness of the times r 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhijmes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring cut old shapes of foul disease, 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindher hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

/ y 



CVI. 

It is the day when he was bom, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 



84 IN MEMORIAM. 

The time admits not jflowers or leaves 

To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpened eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass, 

To darken on the rolling brine 

That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, 
Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 

To make a solid core of heat ; 

Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 
Of all things even as he were by : 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be, 

And sinjj the songs he loved to hear. 



evil. 

I WILL not shut me from my kind ; 

And, lest I stiffen into stone, 

I will not eat my heart alone, 
Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith, 

And vacant yearning, though with nught 
To scale the heaven's highest height, 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 



m MEMORIAM* 85 

Wliat find I in the highest place, 

But mine own phantom chanting hymns ? 

And on the depths of death there swims 
The relicA of a human face. 

I'll rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise. 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



cvrii. 

Heart-affluexce in discursive talk 
From household fountains never dry ; 
The critic clearness of an eye, 

That saw through all the Muses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of mau ; 

Impassioned logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good, 

But touched with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Through all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 

Of fi'eedom in her regal seat 

Of England, not the schoolboy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unasked, in thine, 

And find his comfort in th^ face ; 



86 IN MEMORIAM. 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 

Have looked on : if they looked in vain, 
My sliamc is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



crx. 

Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 

The proud was half disarmed of pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

^yas sofl;ened, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy dearest, sat apart. 

And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 

And loved them more, that they were thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Not mine the sweetness or the skill, > 
But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague depire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



ex. 

The churl ?,n spirit, up or down. 

Along the scale of ranks, through all 
To him who grasps a golden ball 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 8T 

The churl In spirit, howe'er he veil 

His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
AVill let his coltish nature break 

At seasons through the gilded pale ; 

For who can always act ? but he, 

To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seemed to be, 

Best seemed the thing he was, and joined 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

« Nor ever narrowness or spite, 

Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 
Where God and Nature met in light. 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soiled with all ijjnoble use. 



CXI.- 

High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 

That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies. 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 



S8 IN MEMORIAM, 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up forever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought. 

And tracts of calm from tempest made, 
And world-wide fluctuation swayed 

In vassal tides that followed thought. 



CXII. 

'TiS held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
Which not alone had guided me, 

But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil, — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : 

A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Pai4iament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should hcensed boldness gather force. 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course. 

With thousand shocks that come and go, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrow! ngs, and with cries, 

And undulations to and. fro. 



IN MEMORIAM. 89 



Who loves not Knowledge ? "V^Hio shall rail 
Auainst her beauty ? May she mix 
With men and prosper ! Who shall fix 

Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-CTOwn as yet, a child, and vain, — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas frOm the brain 

Of Demons ? fiery-hot to burst 

All barriers in her onward race 

For power. Let her know her place, 

She is the second, not th*e first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child ; 

For she Is earthly of the mind. 

But wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who camest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee 
"WTio grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



90» IN MEMORIAM. 



CXIV. 



Now nulos the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of quick ^ 
About the llowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every, milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, lliat change their sky 

To build and brood ; that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms hke the rest. 



cxv. 

Is It, then, regret for burled time 

That keenher in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and takes 

The colors of the crescent prime V 

Not all ; the songs, the stirring air, 
Tlie life re-orient out of dust. 
Cry through the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 



IN MEMORIAM. 91 

Not all regret ; the face will shine 

Upon mc, while I muse alone ; 

And that dear voice, I once have known, 
Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship fled, 

Than some stron"; bond which is to be. 



CXVI. 

O DAYS and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For fuller aain of after bliss : 



That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
And unto meeting, when we meet. 

Delight a hundredfold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs, 

And every span of shade that steals, 
And every lass of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 



CXVIT. 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in liis youth ; 
Nor (Iream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say, 

The sohd eaiih whereon we tread 



99 IN MEMORIAM. 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic stoi-ms, 

'nil at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branched from clime to clime 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place, 

If so he tj-pe this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 

And, crowned with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That Ufe is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom. 

And heated hot with burning fears ; 
And dipped in baths of hissing tears, 

And battered "vvith the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast. 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXVIII. 

Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; the city sleeps ; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

1 hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long withdrawn 
A light-bkie lane of early dawn, 

And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland. 

And bright the friendship of thine eye ; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 



IN MEMORIAM. 9S 



CXIX. 

I TRUST I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death ; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape. 

But I was born to other things. 



cxx. 

Sad Hesper o'er the burled sun. 

And ready, thou, to die with him, 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 

The team is loosened from the wain. 
The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And hfe is darkened in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night. 

By thee the world's great work is heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market-boat is on the stream. 

And voices hail it from the brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer clink, 

And seest the moving of the team. 



f 94 IN MEMORIAM. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last,. 
Thou, like my present and my past, 

Thy place is changed, thou art the same. 



CXXI. 

O, WAST thou •with me, dearest, then, 
"While I rose up against my doom, 
And strove to burst the folded gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again, 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law ; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow. 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quickened with a livelier breath, 
And like an inconsiderate boy. 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death, 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows. 
And every dew-drop paints a bow ; 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 



CXXII. 

Theur rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes hast thou seeu * 

There where the long streel 
The stillness of the central sea. 



EN MEMORIAM. 95 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 

From form to form, and notliinfr stands; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell. 

And dream my dream, and hold it true ; 

For though my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

CXXIII. 

That which we dare invoke to bless ; 

Our dearest faith, our ghastliest doubt ; 

He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor through the questions men may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, 

I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 
And hke a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answered, " I have felt.'* 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 

But that blind clamor made me "mse ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I seem beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach through nature, moulding men* 



S6 IN MEMORIAM. 

CXXIV. 

Whatever I have said or sung, 

Some bitter notes my hai-p would give, 
Yea, though there often seemed to live 

A contradiction on the tongue, 

. Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; 

She did but look through dimmer eyes ; 
Or Love but played with gracious lies, 
Because he felt so fixed in truth : 

And if the song were full of care, 

He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and strong. 
He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

cxxv. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend. 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my Iving and Lord, 
And will be, though as yet I keep 
"Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompassed by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place, 
And whispers to the worlds of space 

In the deep night, that all is well. 



IN MEMORIAM. 9? 



cxxvi. 

And all is well, though faith and form 
Be sundered in the night of fear ; 
AVell roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 

And justice, ev'n though thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But iU for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 

The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the skj, 

And the vast ^on sinks in blood, 

And compassed by the fires of Hell, 

While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar. 

And smilest, knowing all is welL 



CXXVII. 

I'he love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when he met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt, vast eddies in the flood 

Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet, oh ye mysteries of good, 

VOh. TL 7 



98 m MEMORIAM. 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, 
1£ all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new, 

If this were all your mission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 

To fool the crowd with glorious lies. 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power. 

To cramp the student at his desk. 



To make old bareness 



And tuft with grass a 



iness picturesque 
feudal tower ; 



Wh} then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art. 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 



CXXVIII. 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near, in woe and weal ; 
O, loved the most when most I feel 

There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown, human, divine I 
Sweet human hand and lips and eye, 
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die. 

Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ! 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be, 
Loved deeplrer, darkher understood ; 
Behold I dream a dream of good 

And mingle all the world with thee. 



IN MEMORIAM. 9& 



CXXIX. 



Tv r voice is on the rolling air; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
At. 1 in the setting thou art f.ilr. 

What art thou, then ? I cannot guess ; 
But though I seem in star and llower 
To feel thee, some diirusive power, • 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Though mixed with God and Nature thoO) 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 
I have thee still, and I rejoice : 
I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 

I shall not lose thee, though I die. 



cxxx. 

O LIVING Will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

ITIow through our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift from out the dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquered years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

With faith that comes of self-control. 

The truths that never (,'an be proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in souL 



100 IN MEMORIAM. 



O TRUE and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 

Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house; nor proved' 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Though I since then have numbered o*er 

Some thrice three years : they went and came, 
Remade the blood and changed the frame, 

And yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dying songs a dead regret, 

But like a statue solid-set, 
And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than In the summers that are flown, 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but Idle brawHng rhjTnes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where Is she, the bridal flower. 

That must be made a wife ere neon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 



IN MEMORIAM. 101 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 

And then on thee ; they meet thy look, 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O, when her life was yet in bud, 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she ";rew, for thee she grows 

Forever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out : the noon is near. 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear : 

For I that danced her on my knee. 

That watched her on her nurse's arm, 
That shielded all hei- life from harm, 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife, 

Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her head, 

And the most living words of life 

Breathed In her ear. The ring is on. 

The " Avilt thou " answered, and again 
The " wilt thou " asked, till out of twain 

Her sweet " I will " has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be read 

Mute s)Tnbols of a joj-ful morn, 

By village eyes as yet unborn ; 
The names are signed, and overhead 



102 IN MEMORIAM. 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 

The joy to every wandering breeze; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour ! and happier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them, — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour ! behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 

For them the light of life increased 
Who stay to share the morning feast, 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 

To meet and greet a whiter sun , 
INIy drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays, 

And hearts are warmed and faces bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and groom, 

We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the rest. 

And, though in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go ; the time draws on, 
And those white-favored horses wait; 
They rise, but Unger, it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 



m MEMORIAlf. 



103 



A shade falls on us like the dark 

From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she looked, and what he said, 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, 

The shade of passing thought, the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health. 

The crowning cup, the three times three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 

Dumb is that tower which spake so loud. 
And high in heaven the streaming cloud, 

And on the downs a rising fire : 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down. 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town. 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and spread 

Their sleeping silver through the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors, 
With tender gloom the roof, the wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 



104 IN MEMORIAM. 

And, moved through life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be bom and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 

On knowledge ; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and did, 
And hoped, and suffered, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble tj'pe, 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That Grod, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 



MAUD. 



1. 

I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 

Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood- 
red heath, 

The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of 
blood, 

And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers 
* Death.' 



For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was 

found, 
His who had given me life — O father ! O God I 

was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and erush'd, and dinted into 

the ground: 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he 

fell. 

3. 

Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast 

speculation had fail'd. 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever 

wann'd with despair. 
And out he walk'd when the wind hke a broken 

worldling wail'd, 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove 

thro' the air. 



106 MAUD. 



4. 

I remember the time, for the roots of mj hair were 

stirr'd 
By a sbuflled step, by a dead weight trall'd, by a 

whisper'd fright, 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on 

my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the 

shuddering night. 

5. 

"Vlllany somewhere 1 whose ? One says, we are 

villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be 

maintain'd : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and 

the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us 

flaccid and drain'd. 

6. 

Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we 

have made them a curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its 

own ; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better 

or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on hia 

own hearthstone ? 

7. 

But these are the days of advance, the works of 
the men of mind. 

When who but a fool would have faith in a trades- 
man's ware or his word ? 

Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that 
of a kind 

The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the 
sword. 



MAUD. 191 



8. 



Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 
Of the golden age — why not? I have neither 

hope nor trust ; 
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as 

a Hint, 
Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we 

are ashes and dust 

9. 

Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days 

gone by, 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, 

each sex, hke swine, 
When only the ledger Hves, and when only not all 

men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes! — but a company 

forges the wine. 

10. 

And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian*8 

head, 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the 

trampled wife. 
While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the 

poor for bread. 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means 

of life. 

11. 

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous 
centre-bits 

Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moon- 
less nights. 

While another is cheating the sick of a few last 
^asps, as he sits 

To pestle a poison'd poi^n behind his crimaoo 
lights. 



108 MAUD. 

12. 

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a 
burial fee, 

And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's 
bones, 

Is it peace or war ? better, war I loud war by land 
and by sea. 

War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hun- 
dred thrones. 

13. 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round 
by the hill. 

And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three- 
decker out of the foam, 

That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would 
leap from his counter and till, 

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheat- 
ing yard-wand, home. 

14. 

What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in 
his mood ? 

Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself 
down and die 

Rather than hold by the law that I made, never- 
more to brood 

On a horror of shatter'd Kmbs and a wretched 
swindler's lie ? 

15. 

Would there be sorrow for me f there was love in 

the passionate shriek. 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste 

to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he 

would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he 

used to rave. 



MAUD. 109 



16. 

I am sick of the Hall and the hiU, I am sick of 

the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay V can a sweeter chance ever 

come to me here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the 

nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the 
pit and the fear ? 

17. 
There are workmen up at the HaU: they are 

coming back from abroad ; 
The dark old place wiU be gilt by the touch of a 

millionnaire : ^ , • i 

I have heard, 1 know not whence, of the smgular 
beauty of Maud ; , ., , , -a 

I pla/d with the girl when a child; she promised 
then to be fair. 

18. 
Maud with her venturous chmbings and tumbles 

and childish escapes, , . 

Maud the delight of the viUage, the ringing joy ot 

the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my lather 

dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced 
darhng of all, — 

19. 
What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may 
bring me a curse. mi i » 

No, there is' fatter game on the moor ; she will let 

me alone, 
rhanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman 
or man be the worse, 
will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may 
pipe to his own. 



110 MAUD. 



n. 



LoKG have I sigh'd for a calm : (jod grant I ma> 

find it at last ! 
It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither 

savor nor salt, 
But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her 

carriage past, 
Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where 

is the fault ? 
AH that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to 

be seen) 
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null. 
Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had 

not been 
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect 

of the rose. 
Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, 

too full, 
Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a 

sensitive nose. 
From which I escaped heart-free, with the least 

little touch of spleen. 



in. 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly 

meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was 

drown'd, 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on 

the cheek. 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom 

profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a tran- 
sient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as 

pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without 

a sound, 



MAUD. Ill 

L/uminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the 
night loLg 

Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear 
it no more, 

But arose, and all by myself in my own dark gar- 
den ground, 

Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship- 
wrecking roar. 

Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd 
down by the wave, 

Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and 
found 

The shining daflbdil dead, and Orion low in his 
grave. 

IV 

1. 

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded 

lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore 

cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful 

season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a 

softer clime, 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent 

of sea. 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the 

land ? 

2. 

Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet 

and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, 

and spite ; 
And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many Hea 

as a Czar ; 
^d here on the landward side, by a red rock, 

glimmers the Hall ; 



112 MAUD. 

And up m the higli Hall-garden I see her pass like 

a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading 

star 1 



When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head 

of the race ? 
met her to-day with her brother, but not to her 

brother I bow'd ; 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the 

moor; 
But the fire of a foohsh pride flash'd over her 

beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being 

so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am 
nameless and poor. 

4. 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander 

and steal ; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or 

like 
A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its 

way: 
For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher 

can heal ; 
The Ma}'fly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow- 

spear'd by the shrike, 
And the whole Uttle wood where I sit is a world of 

plunder and prey. 

5. 

We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair 

in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen 

hand at a game 



MAUD. 113 

That pushes us off from the board, and others ever 

succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for 

an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a 

brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a Kttle 

breed. 

6. 

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of 

Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river 

billowing ran. 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's 

crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for 

his birth. 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making 

of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too 

base ? 

7. 

The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and 

vain, 
An Gye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded 

and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly 

and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate 

brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, 

were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a 

garden of spice. 

VOL,. IL 8 



114 MAUD. 



8. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by 

the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will 

bring them about ? 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is 

wide. 
Shall I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek if a 

Hungary fail ? 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with 

knout ? 
I have not made the world, and He that made it 

will guide. 

9. 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland 

ways. 
Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be 

my lot, 
Far off from the elamcwof Kars belied in the hubbub 

of lies ; 
From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are 

ever hissing dispraise 
Because their natures are little, and, whether hfi 

heed it or not, 
Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of 

poisonous flies. 

10. 

And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness 

of love. 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless 

ill. 
Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet 

for a wife. 
your mother is mute in her grave as her image in 

marble above j 



M.»»r ) 



rour father is ever in London, jou wander about 

at your will , 
You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies 

of life. 



A VOICE by the cedar tree, 

In the meadow under the HaU ! 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 

A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 

Singing alone in the morning of life, 

In the happy morning of life and of May, 

Singing of men that in battle array, 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 

2. 

Maud with her exquisite face. 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, 
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace. 
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, 
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean 
And myself so languid and base. 

3. 

Silence, beautiful voice ! 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 

But to move to the meadow and fall before 

Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, 

Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 

Kot her, not her, but a voice. 



116 Ma«I ♦ 



VI. 



MoKNiNG arises stormy and pale, 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 

And the Dudded peaks of the wood are bow*d 

Caught and cuff'd by the gale : 

I had fancied it would be fair. 

2. 

Whom but Maud should I meet 

Last night, when the sunset burn'd 

On the blossom'd gable-ends 

At the head of the village street, 

Whom but Maud should I meet ? 

And she touch'd my hand with a smile 80 sweet 

She made me divine amends 

For a courtesy not return'd. 

3. 

And thus a delicate spark 

Of glowing and growing light 

Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 

Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, 

Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; 

Till at last when the morning came 

In a cloud, it faded, and seems 

But an ashen-gray dehght. 

4. 

What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny as cold. 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet 



MAUD. 1 1 7 



5. 



Ah, what shcill I be at fifty 

Should Nature keep me alive, 

U I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five ? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

6. 

What if the' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
"What if that dandy-despot, he, • 
That jewell'd mass of milliner}-, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence. 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in liis own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yester-morn 
How prettily for liis own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd. 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes. 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 

7. 

For a raven ever croaks, at my side. 

Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward, 

Or tbou wilt prove their tool. 

Yea too, myself from myself I guard. 

For often a man's o-vvn angry pride 

Is cai) and bells for a fool. 



lis MAUD. 



8. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 

Came out of her pitying womanhood, 

For am I not, am I not, here alone 

So many a summer since she died, 

My mother, who was so gentle and good ? 

Living alone in an empty house. 

Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 

Where I hear the dead at midday moan, 

And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse, 

And my own sad name in corners cried, 

When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown 

About its echoing chambers wide. 

Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 

Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 

And a morbid eating lichen fixt 

On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 

9. 

heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 

For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, her hand 
Come slitling out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 

10. 

1 have play'd with her when a child ; 
She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile had all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



MAUD. ^19 



1. 

Did I hear it half In a doze 
Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 

When asleep in this arm-chair ? 



Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

* Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty ; so let it be.* 

3. 

Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian nijiht ? 



Strange, that I hear two men, 

Somewhere, talking of me ; 
* Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 

Will have plenty : so let it be. 

vm. 
She came to the \'illage church, 
And sat by a pillar alone ; 
An angel watching an urn 
Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
And once, but once, she lifted her eyes. 
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante, 



120 MAUD. 



Delicate-handed priest intone ; 

And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh'd 

* No surely, now it cannot be pride.' 



IX. 



I "WAS walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile, 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
And riding at set of day- 
Over the dark moor land. 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side. 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
And back returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died, 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
W^rought, till he crept from a gutted mine 
Master of half a servile shire. 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire. 
Strong in the power that all men adore* 



MAUD, l^i 

And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year. 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear 



What, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. 
Bhthe would her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought ? what is it he cannot'^buy ? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



Last week came one to the county town, 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice as well : 
This broad-briram'd hawker of holy things. 
Whose ear is stuff 'd with his cotton, and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence. 
This huckster put down war ! can lie tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence ? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride. 
Jealousy, down I cut off from the mind 



132 MAUD. 

The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside, 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 

4. 
I wish I could hear again 
The chivalrous battle-song 
That she warbled alone in her joy I 
I might persuade myself then 
She would not do herself this great wrong 
To take a wanton dissolute boy 
For a man and leader of men. 

6. 
Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, 
liike some of the simple great ones gone 
Forever and ever by, 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 

6. 
And ah for a man to arise in me, 
That the man I am may cease to be 1 

XI. 

1. 

LET the solid ground 

Not fail beneath my feet 
Before my Hfe has found 

What some have found so sweet 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 

2. 

Let the sweet heavens endure. 
Not close and darken above me 



MAUD. 123 



Before I am quite quite sure 

That there is one to love me ; 
Then let come what come may 
To a life that has been so sad, 
I shall have had my day. 

xn. 
1. 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 

They were crying and calling 

2. 

Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies. 

Myriads blow together. 

3. 

Birds in our wood sang 

Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 

4. 

I kiss'd her slender hand. 

She took the kiss sedately ; 

Maud is not seventeen. 

But she is tall and stately. 

6. 

I to cry out on piide 

Who have won her favor ! 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her 



12i MAU1>. 



6. 



I know the way she went 

Home with her maiden posj, 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

7. 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 

Were crpng and calling to her, 

Where is Maud,"Maud, Maud, 
One is come to woo her. 



Look, a horse at the door, 

And httle King Charles is snarling. 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her darUng. 

xm. 



Scorn'd, to be scom'd by one that I scorn, 

Is that a matter to make me fret ? 

That a calamity hard to be borne ? 

Well, he may live to hate me yet. 

Fool that I am to be vext with his pride I 

I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 

He stood on the path a little aside ; 

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 

Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and whitei 

And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 

But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 

And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 

Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 



MAUD. i^ 

To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was Immmlng an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding-whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
And curving a contumehous lip, 
Gorgonised me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 

3. 

Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man nev&r comes to his place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ? 
For only once, in the village street. 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be untrue ; 
And ]\Iaud is as true as Maud is sweet : 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side \ 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 

4. 

Peace, an^ry spirit, and let him be 1 
Has not his sister smiled on me 1 



126 MAUD. 

XIV. 



Maud has a garden of roses, 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither I chmb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 

2. 

Maud's own little oak-room 

(Which Maud, like a precious stone 

Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 

Lights with herself, when alone 

She sits by her music and books, 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roystering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden gate : 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white 

As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 

On the hasp of the window, and my Delight 

Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide 

Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my aide. 

There were but a step to be made. 

3. 

The fancy flatter'd my mind, 
And again seem'd overbold ; 
Now I thought that she cared for me. 
Now I thought she was kind 
Only because she was cold. 

4. 

T heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Eunning down to my own dark wood j 



MAUD. 127 

Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd 

Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 

But I look'd, and round, all round the house 1 

beheld 
The death-wliite curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath. 
Knew that the death- white curtain meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep 

of death. 

XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 

And I make myself such evil cheer, 

That if I be dear to some one else. 

Then some one else may have much to fear ; 

But if I be dear to some one else. 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that I think, 

Yea, ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 

If I be dear. 

If I be dear to some one else. 

XVI. 

1. 

This lump of earth has left his estate 

The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 

And so that he find what he went to seek, 

And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 

His heart in the gross mud-honey of town. 

He may stay for a year who has gone for a week : 

But this is the day when I must speak, 

And I see my Oread coming down, 

O this is the day 1 

O beautiful creature, what am I 

That I dare to look her way ; 

Think I may hold dominion sweet. 

Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, 



12a MAUD. 

And clream of her heauty with tender dread, 

From the tlehcate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not: O, if she knew it, 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 
I Icnow it the one bright thing to save 
My yet }'Oung life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 

2. 

What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord, 

iDare I bid her abide by her word ? 

Should I love her so well if she 

Had given her word to a thing so low ? 

Shall I love her as well if she 

Can break her word were it even for me ? 

I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye. 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her or die. 

xvn. 

Go not, happy day, 
From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day. 
Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the AVest, 
Rosy is the South, 
Roses arc her cheeks, 
And a rose her mouth. 
AVlien the happy Yes 
Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 
O'er the blowing ships. 



MAUD. i2# 



Over blowing seaa, 
Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 
Blush it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 
By his red cedar tree, 
And the red man's babe 
Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from AVest to East, 
Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 
Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 
Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 
And a rose her mouth. 



XVJiL 
1. 



I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend. 

There is none like her, none. 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end, 

Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 



None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongned laurels* pattering talk 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk. 

And shook my heart to think she comes once more 

But even then I heard her close the door, 

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 

3. 

There is none like her, none. 
Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 
VOL. n. 9 



130 MAUD. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thy deliciou 

East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased, 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair. 
And looking to the South, and fed 
With honey'd rain and delicate' air, 
And haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, 
And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must have spread 
With such dehght as theirs of old, thy great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
Shadowing the snow-lLmb'd Eve from whom she 



Here will I lie, while these long branches sway. 

And you fair stars that crown a happy day 

Go in and out as if at merry play, 

Who am no more so all forlorn. 

As when it seem'd far better to be bom 

To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand, 

Than nursed at ease and brought to understand 

A sad astrology, the boundless plan 

That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, 

Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 

Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 

His nothingness into man. 

5. 
But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 
The eounter-eharm of space and hollow sky, 
And do accejrt my madness, and would die 
To save from some slight shame one simple girL 

6. 
Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 



MAUD. X21 

In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A iiveher emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 

7. 

Not die ; but live a life of truest breath, 
And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. 
O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs. 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? 
Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss, 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? 
" The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more 
dear." 

8. 
[s that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay ? 
And hark the clock within, the silver knell 
.Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white. 
And died to live, long as my pulses play ; 
But now by this my love has closed her sight 
And given false death her hand, and stol'n away 
To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
My own heart's heart and ownest own, farewell. 
It is but for a little space I go : 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 
Of your soft splendors that you look so bright ? 
I have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things below. 
Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, 



132 MAUD. 

Blest, but for some dark under-current woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not'be so : 
Let all be well, be well. 

XIX. 



Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 

2. 

My dyeam ? do I dream of bliss V 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 

when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and mine : 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 

3. 

1 trust that I did not talk 
To gentle Maud in our walk 
(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 

But I trust that I did not talk, 

Not touch on her father's sin : 

I am sure I did but speak 

Of my mother's faded cheek 

When it slowly grew so thin, 

That I felt she Avas slowly dying 

Vext with lawyers and luirass'd with debt 

For how often I caught her with eyes all ^et, 

Shaking her head at her son and sighing 

A world of trouble within ! 



MAUD 133 



4. 



And Maud too, Maud was moved 

To speak of the mother she loved 

As one scarce less forlorn, 

Dying abroad and it seems apart 

From him Avho had ceased to share her heart, 

And ever mourning over the feud, 

The household Fury sprinkled with blood 

By which our houses are torn : 

How strange was what she said, 

When only Maud and the brother 

Hung over her dying bed — 

That Maud's dark father and mine 

Had bound us one to the other, 

Betrothed us over their wine. 

On the day when INlaud was born ; 

Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath. 

Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death, 

Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 

5. 

But the true blood spilt had In it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, 
That, if left uncancelled, had been so sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, 
As it were a duty done to the tomb, 
To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled ;_ 
And I was cursing them and my doom, 
And letting a dangerous thought run wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there, 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled 1 



134 MAUD. 



6. 



But tlien what a fllut is be I 

Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 

I find wbenever sbe toucb'd on me 

Tbis brotber bad laugli'd ber down, 

And at last, wben eaeb came borne, 

He bad darken'd into a frown, 

Cbid ber, and forbid ber to speak 

To me, ber friend of tbe years before ; 

And tbis was wbat bad redden'd ber cheek 

Wben I bow'd to ber on tbe moor. 

7. 

Yet Maud, altbo' not blind 

To tbe faults of bis beart and mind, 

I see sbe cannot but love bim, 

And says be is rougb but kind, 

And wisbes me to approve bim, 

And tells me, wben sbe lay 

Sick once, witb a fear of worse, 

Tbat be left bis wine and borses and play, 

Sat witb ber, read to ber, nigbt and day, 

And tepded ber like a nurse. 



Kind ? but tbe deatbbed desire 
Spurn'd by tbis beir of tbe liar — 
Rougb but kind ? yet I know 
He bas plotted against me in tbis, 
Tbat be plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud V tbat were not amiss. 
Well, rougb but kind ; why, let it be 
For sball not IMaud have ber will ? 



MAUD. 135 



J). 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 
As long as my life endures 
I feel I shall owe you a debt, 
That I never can hope to pay •, 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours : 

then, what then shall I say ? — 
If ever 1 should forget. 

May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been yet ! 

10. 

So now I have sworn to bury 
All this dead body of hate, 

1 feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

Tbat I should grow Hght-headed, I fear, 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night 



1. 

Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that I tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vcxt her and peqilext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a httle lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due ? 



136 MAUD. 

Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 
Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live. 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirehngs near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels. 
And the bird of prey will hover, 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

3. 

A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makera, 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud in all her glory. 

4. 

For I am not in-vntcd. 

But, with the Sultan's pardon, 

I am all as well delighted. 

For I know her own rose-garden, 

And mean to linger in it 

Till the dancing will be over ; 

And then, O then, come out to me 



MAUD. 137 



For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 



XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground. 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found. 

Forgetful of Maud and me, 

And lost in trouble and mo^ang round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall 

And trj-ing to pass to the sea ; 

O Ri^allet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

rif I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me, 

Saying in odor and color, 'Ah, be 

Amonjr the roses to-night.* 



XXII. 



Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

2. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 



133 MAUD. 

On a bed of daffodil sky, 
To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

3. 

All night hav6 the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune : 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

4. 

I said to th'i lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." ^ 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

5. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

" For ever and ever, mine." 

6. 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the 
wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



MAUD. 139 



7. 
From the m«adow your walks have left so sweet 

That whenever a March-whid sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

8. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

9. 
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 

Come hither, the dances are done, 
In gloss of satin and gUmmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,. 

To the flowers, and be heir sun. 

10. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ; 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late ;" 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 

And the lily whispers, " I wait. " 

11. 

She Is coming, my own, my sweet ; 
Were it ever so airy a tread. 



140 MAUD 

My heart would hear her and beat, 
Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 

My dust would hear her and beat, 
Had I lain for a century dead ; 

Would start and tremble under her feet, 
And blossom in purple and red. 



xxni. 

1. 

** The fault was mine, the fault was mine '*— 

Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, 

Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ?— 

It is this guilty hand ! — 

And there rises ever a passionate cry 

From underneath in the darkening land — 

What is it that has been done ? 

O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, 

The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun, 

The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word. 

When her brother ran in his rage to the gate. 

He came with the babe-faced lord ; 

Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 

And while she wept, and I strove to be cool. 

He fiercely gave me the He, 

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, 

And he struck me, madman, over the face, 

Struck me before the languid fool. 

Who was gaping and grinning by : 

Struck for himself an evil stroke ; 

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe 

For front to front in an hour we stood, 

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke 

From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood. 

And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless codg. 

That must have life for a blow. 

Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. 



MAUD. 141 

Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? 
" The fault was mine," he whisper'd, " fly ! " 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The gliastly Wraith of one that I know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till 
I die. 

2. 

Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 

What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ? 

Yet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet, 

High over the shadowy land. 

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain. 

When they should burst and drown with deluging 

storms 
Tlie feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust, 
The little hearts that know not how to forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous 

worms, 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 

XXIV. 

1. 

See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl. 
Lying close to my foot. 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of desiirn 1 



142 MAUD. 

2. 

What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let bim name it who can, 
The beauty would be the 

3. 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his fUm water- world ? 



Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand. 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oalcen spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand ! 

6. 

Breton, not Briton ; here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 

Plagiied with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That never came from on high 

Nor ever arose from below. 

But only moves with the moving eye. 

Flying along the land and the main — 



MAUD. 143 

Why should it look like Maud ? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle bom of the brain ? 

6. 

Back from the Breton coast, 
Sick of a nameless fear, 
Back to the dark sea-line 
Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 
An old song vexes my ear ; 
But that of Lamech is mine. 



For years, a measureless Ul, 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me. 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. . 

8. 

Strange, that the mind, when fraught 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Might drown all life in the eye, — 

That It should, by being so overwrought, 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little tilings 

Which else would have been past by 1 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought 

It is his mother's hair. 



144 MAUD. 



9. 

Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled ? 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be, 

Jomfort her, comfort her, all things good, 

While I am over the sea ! 

Let me and my passionate love go by, 

But speak to her all things holy and high, 

Whatever happen to me ! 

Me and my harmful love go by ; 

But come to her waking, find her asleep, 

Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, 

And comfort her tho' I die. 

XXV. 

CouKAGE, poor heart of stone I 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left forever alone : 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.— 

Or if I ask thee why. 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou shalt more than die. 

XXVI. 

1. 

O THAT 'twere possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again I 



When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 



MAUD 145 

By the home that gave me birth, 

We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 
Than au}'tliing on earth. 

3. 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee ; 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell oe 

What and where they be. 

4. 

It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights. 

And the roaring of the wheels. 

5. 

Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow. 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The deUght of low replies. 



'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
*Tis a morning pure and sweet. 
And the light and shadow fleet ', 
She is walking in the meadow, 

VOL. IL 10 



146 MAUD. 

And tlie -woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is sniging in the meadow, 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 



Do I hear her sing as of old, 

My bird with the shining head, 

My own dove with the tender eye ? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry 

There is some one dying or dead, 

And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 

For a tumult shakes the city. 

And I wake, my dream is fled ; 

In the shuddering dawn, behold. 

Without knowledge, without pity, 

By the curtains of my bed 

That abiding phantom cold. 

8. 

Get thee hence, nor come again, 

Mix not memory with doubt. 

Pass, thou deathlike t}'pe of pain, ^ 

Pass and cease to move about, 

'Tis the blot upon the brain 

That will show itself without 

9. 

Tl.en I rise, the eave-drops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke, 
On Uie misty river-tide. 

10. 

Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame, 



MAUD. 

It crosses here, it crosses there, 

Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 

The shadow still the same ; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 

11. 

Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call. 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 

12. 

Would the happy spirit descend. 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest. 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say " forgive the wrong,'* 
Or to ask her, " take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest ? " 

13. 

But the broad light glares and beats, 

And the shadow flits and fleets 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets. 

And the faces that one meets. 

Hearts with no love for me : 

Always I long to creep 

Into some still cavern deep, 

There to weep, and weep, and weep 

My whole soid out to thee. 



147 



148 MAUD. 



xxvn. 
1. 



Dead, long dead, 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 

And the wheels go over my head, 

And my bones are shaken with pain, 

For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 

Only a yard beneath the street. 

And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 

The hoofs of the horses beat, 

Beat into my scalp and my brain. 

With never an end to the stream of passing feet, 

Driving, hurrjdng, marrpng, burying, 

Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter. 

And here beneath it is all as bad. 

For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so 

To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ? 

But up and down and to and fro. 

Ever about me the dead men go ; 

And then to hear a dead man chatter 

Is enough to drive one mad. 



Wretchedest age, since Time began 

They cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are 

gone. 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read ; 
It is that which m^es us loud in the world of the 

dead; 
There is none that does his work, not one ; 
A touch of their office might have sufficed. 
But the churchmen fain would kill their church, 
^ the churches have kill'd their Christ. 



MAUD. 149 



8. 



See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, prapng 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And }'onder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient — all for what ? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him not. 

For it is but a world of the dead. 

4. 

Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood. 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the pubhc good. 

But babble, merely for babble. 

For I never whisper'd a private aifair 

AVithin the hearing of cat or mouse, 

No, not to myself in the closet alone, 

But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the 

house ; 
Everything came to be known ; 
Who told him we were there ? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used 

to lie ; - 

He has gathered the bones for his o'ergrown whelp 

to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die. 

6. 

Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 

And curse me the British vermin, the rat ; 



150 MAUD. 

I know not wlietber he came in tlie Hanover sliip, 

But I know that he lies and listens mute 

In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes : 

Arsenic, Arsenic, sure, would do it, 

Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! 

It is all used up for that. 

7. 

Tell him now : she is standing here at my head 

Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 

He may take her now ; for she never speaks hei 

mind. 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



8. 

But I know where a garden grows, 

Fairer than aught in the world beside, 

All made up of the Hly and rose 

That blow by night, when the season is good, 

To the sound of dancing music and flutes : 

It is only flowers, they had no fruits. 

And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood ; 

For the keeper was one, so full of pride. 

He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; 

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes, 

Would he have that hole in his side ? 



But what will the old man say ? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy day ; 

Yet now I could even weep to think of it ; 

For what will tlie old man say 

Wheo he. comes to the second corpse in the pit ? 



MAUD. 151 

10. 

Friend, to be struck by tlie public foe, 
Then to strike liim and kiy him low, 
That were a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin, 
But the red life spilt for a private blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 

11. 

me, why have they not buried me deep enough r 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough. 

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 win cry to the steps alDOve my head, 

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 

xxvm. 
1. 

My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at l?>.st for a little thing : 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 
When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 
And the shining daffodQ dies, and the Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 
That like a silent lightning under the stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the 

blest, 
And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming 

wars — 
And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion*» 

breast 



152 MAUTJ 



And it was but a dream, yet it pelded a dear 

deliglit 
To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so 

ffiir. 
That had been in a weary world my one thing 

bright ; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair 
When I thought that a war would arise in defence 

of the right, 
That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, 
The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionnaire : 
No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, 
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, 
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore. 
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat, 
Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more, 

3. 

And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 
" It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I 
(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and 

" It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, 
That old hysterical mock-disease should die." 
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle cry, 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 
I'ar into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 



Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold. 
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and 

shames. 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 



MAUD. 153 

And hail once more to the banner of battle ud« 

roU'd ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall 

weep 
For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring 

claims, 
Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant 

liar; 
And many a darkness into the light shall leap, 
And shine in the sudden makino; of splendid namea 
And noble thought be freer under the sun. 
And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 
For the peace that I deemed no peace is over and 

done, 
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic 

deep, 
And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, 

flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 

5. 

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a 

wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are 

noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the bettei 

mind ; 
It is better to fight for the good, than to rail a1 

the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one with mj 

kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the doon» 

assign'd. 



154 THE BBOOE. 



THE BSOOK 



" Here, by this brook, we parted ; I tO the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One wbom tlie strong sons of the world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, 
And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that is. 

had he lived ! In our school-books we say, 
Of those that held their heads above the crowd, 
They flourish'd then or then ; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to llourish, only touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 

When all the wood stands in a mist of green, 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook he loved. 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air, 

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, 

To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' he says, 
O babbhng brook,' says Edmund in his rhjTne, 
Whence come you ? ' and the brook, why not ? 
replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and herr, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I huiTy down, 

Or slip between the ridges. 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 



THE BROOK. 155 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

« Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite -worn out, 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, 
It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet 

I chatter over stony ways. 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For rnen may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

" But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird ; 
Old Philip ; all about the fields you caught 
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 
High- elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 

With here a blossom sailing. 
And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel, 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above tiie golden gravel, • 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 



156 THE BROOK. 

*' O darling Katie Willows, his one cliild I 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; 
A dau_2;bter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, 
ler and her far-ofl' cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart with her 
For here I came, twenty years back — the week 
Before I parted Avith ])oor Edmund ; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, Avhere the waters marry — crost, 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And pusii'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate, 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge, 
Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a casement, ' run,* 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
' Run, Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she movei 
To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down. 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

" AVhat was it ? less of sentiment than sense 
Had Katie ; not ilHterate ; neither one 
VVlio dabbling in the fount of Active tears. 
And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philanthropies. 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 

" She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. 
AVhy? 
What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no cause , 
James had no cause : but when I prest the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James ? I said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine, 
And sketching with her lender pointed foot 



THE BROOK. 15/ 

Some figure like a ^vizard's pentagram 

On garden gravel, let my query pass 

Unclahn'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 

If James were coming. ' Coming every day/ 

Slie answered, ' ever longing to explain, 

But evermore her father came across 

With some long-winded tale, and broke him short ] 

And James departed vext with him and her.' 

How could I help her ? ' Would I — was it 

wrong ? ' 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) 
' O would I take her father for one hour, 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to me ! * 
And even while she spoke, I saw where James 
Made toward us, Uke a wader In the surf, 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet. 

" O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake ! 
For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm : full Avilllngly he rose : 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanes 
Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as lie went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who In session on their roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for whom thej 

were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : 
' That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire.* 
And there he told a long long-winded tale 



158 THE BROOK. 

Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass, 
And how it was the thinsj his daughter wish'd, 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price he ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 
He gave them line : and five days after that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd something more, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 
He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price 
He gave them line : and how by chance at last 
(It might be ISIay or April, he forgot, 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the farm. 
And, talking from the point, he drew him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, 
Until they closed a bai'gain, hand in hand. 

" Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, be, 
Poor fellow, could he help it ? recormnenced, 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantiv^j^ Tallyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, 
Till, not to die a hstener, I arose, 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun, 
And following our own shadows thrice as long 
As when they follow'd us from Philip's door, 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things welL 

I steal by lawns and grj^ssy plots, 

I slide by liazel covers ; 
I move tlie' sweet for<:cet-me-note 

That grow for happy lovers. 



THE BROOK. 159 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among ray skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbenra dance 
Against m}' saudy shallows. 

1 mnrmiu' under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by ray shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go oja forever. 

fes, men may come and go ; and these are gone, 

All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps, 

Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire. 

But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 

Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he, 

Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words 

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 

I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 

By the long wash of Australasian seas 

Far off, and holds her head to other stars, 

And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near. 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her, "Are you from the 

farm ? " — 
" Yes," answer'd she. — " Pray stay a little : pardon 

me ; 



160 THE BROOK. 

What do they call you ? *'— " Katie."—" That were 

strange. 
AVhat piirname ? "— " Willows."—" No ! "— " That 

is my name." — 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self-perplext, 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. 
Then looking at her ; " Too happy, fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your name 
About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have you not heard ? " said Katie, " we came 
back. 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her ? so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her English days, 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come with me. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
But she — you will be welcome — O, come in ! " 



THE LETTERS. 161 

THE LETTERS. 



1. 

Still on tbc tower stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar. Heaven and earth shall meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 

2. 

I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong, 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 
I saw with half-imconsclous eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 

8. 

She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips comprest, 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ', 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 

4. 
She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of fixe- 

VOL. n. 11 



162 ODE ON THE DEATH OP 

" No more of love ; your sex is known : 
I never -will be twice deceived. 

Henceforth I trust the man alone, 
The woman cannot be believed. 



" Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell 

(And women's slander is the worst), 
And you, whom once I loved so well, 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with va^^ue alarms—^ 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 

6. 

We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue. 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile. 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle, 

There comes a sound of marriage bells.** 



ODE ON THE DEATH 

OP 

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 



1. 
Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 166 

Mourning when their leaders fall, 
WarrioiTs carry the warrior's pah, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



WTiere shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wi'ought for, 
And the feet of tliose he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

3. 
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long, long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 
And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
The last great EngUshman is low. 

4. 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 

Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 

No more in soldier fashion will he greet 

With hlTted hand the gazer in the street. 

O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 

Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 

The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 

\Vhole in himself, a common good. 

Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 

Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 

Our greatest yet with least pretence, 

Great in council and great in war. 

Foremost captain of his time, 

Rich in saving common-sense, 

And, as the greatest only are. 

In his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 



164 ODE ON THE DEATH OP- 

Which stood foursquare to all the winds that 

blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World- victor's victor will be seen no 

more. 

5. 
All is over and done : 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
England, for thy son. 
Let the bell be toll'd. 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
And render him to the mould. 
Under the cross of gold 
That shines over city and river, 
There he shall rest forever 
Ajnong the wise and the bold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 
And a reverent people behold 
The towering car, the sable steeds : 
Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds, 
Dark in its funeral fold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder iiis loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom ; 
When he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead captain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name. 
Which he has worn so pure of blame. 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 165 

O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-ringing avenues of song. 

6. 

AVTio is he that cometh hke an honor'd guest, 
With banner and with music, with soldier and with 

priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? 
Mighty seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he. 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assayp 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day, 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart lines. 
Where he greatly stood at bay. 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew. 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms, 



166 ODE ON THE DEATH OP 

Back to France with countless blows. 

Till o'er the bills her eagles flew 

Past the Pyreuean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ; 

A day of onsets of despair ! 

Dash'd on every rocky square 

I'heir surpring charges foam'd themselves away ; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 

Through the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 

And down we swept and charged and overthrew 

So great a soldier taught us there, 

"What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world's eartliquake, Waterloo ! 

Mighty seaman, tender and true. 

And pure as h6 from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice, 

The i)roof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rt'joice 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 167 



A people's voice ! vre are a people yet. 
Tlio' all men else their nobler dreams forget 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
His Saxon in blown seas and storming showers, 
We have a voice with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust. 
And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrusL 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-liall 
Forever ; and whatever tempests lower 
Forever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the ]\Ian who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth, to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language rile 
With rugged maxims hewn from Hfe ; 
Who nevar spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
Ail great self-seekers trampling on the right : 



168 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 

Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 

8. 

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 

Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 

Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 

He, on whom from both her open hands 

Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 

And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 

Yea, let all good things await 

Him who cares not to be great, 

But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or twice in our rough island-storr, 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He that walks it, or\y thirsting 

For the right, and learns to deaden 

Love of self, before his journey closes, 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 

Into glossy purples, whi€h outredden 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story. 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He, that ever following her commands, 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevall'd. 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God Himself is moon and sim. 

Such was he : his work is done : 

But while the races of mankind endure, 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land. 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 

The path of duty be the way to glory : 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 169 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shamw 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

And when the long-illumined cities flame, 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 

9. 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see : 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung : 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

Ours the pain, be his the gain I 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere. 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain. 

And brawling memories aU too free 

For such a wise humihty 

As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity. 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 

Until we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hiU 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will ; 



170 THE DAISY. 

Tho* worlds on worlds in mjTiad myriads roll 

Round us, each with diflerent powers, 

And other forms of life than ours, 

What know we fjreater than the soul ? 

On God and GodUke men we build our trust. 

Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears i 

The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

He is gone who seem'd so great. — 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here, and we beheve him 

Sometliing far advanced in State, . 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

But speak no more of his renown, 

Lay your earthly fancies down, 

And in the vast cathedral leave him. 

God accept him, Christ receive him. 



THE DAISY. 



WRITTEN AT KDlKBUBQa. 



O Love, what hours were thine and mine 
In lands of pahn and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 



THE DAISY. 171 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved >vith a summer swell. 

What slender campanill grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 

AVhere, here and there, on sandy beachea 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most. 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast. 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A hght amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far off on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold^ 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes. 
The grave, sei ere Gecovese of old. 



172 THE DAISY. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Cascinfe, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright -vdgnettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 

Or palace, how the city gUtter'd, 
Thro' c}^ress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight') look'd the Lombard piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires 1 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake beyond his limit, 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 



THE DAISY. 173 

From Como, when the light was gray, 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on The Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 

The moonhght touching o'er a terrace 
One taU Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city. 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 
This nursling of another sky 

Still in the httle book you lent me. 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, 

The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 



174 TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain. 

Perchance, to dream you still beside me, 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 



Come, when no graver cares employ. 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 

Who give the Fiend himself his due, 

Should eighty thousand college-councils 
rhunder " Anathema," friend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome 
(Ttike it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You'U have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine ; 

For groves of pine on either hand. 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 



Will. 1 75 

WTiere, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 

And on thro' zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 

TiU you should turn to dearer matters. 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store. 
How mend the dwellino:s, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 

But when the wreath of JVIarch has blossomed. 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pay one visit here. 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many 
Many and many a happy year. 

January, 1854. 



WILL. 

1. 

O WELL for him whose will is strong I 
He sufiei-s, but he vnW. not suffer long ; 



176 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong : 

For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, 

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, 

Who seems a promontory of rock, 

That, eompass'd round with turbulent sound, 

In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 

Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowu'd. 

2. 

But ill for him who, bettering not with time. 

Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will, 

And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime. 

Or seeming-genial venial fault. 

Recurring and suggesting still ! 

He seems as one whose footsteps halt, 

Toiling in immeasurable sand. 

And o'er a weary sultry land. 

Far beneath a blazing vault. 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, 

The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



THE 

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

1. 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

llodc the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light J3rigade ! 
" Charge for the guns 1 ""he said; 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



" Forward, the Liffht Briprade!** 
Was tlu'ic a man dismay 'd ? 
Not tlio' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd; 
Theirs not to make rej^ly, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die, 
Into the valley of Death 

Kode the six huudi'cd. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the sLx hundred. 



4. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they tum'd in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke j 
Cossack and liussian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and suiiderM. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Kot the six hundred. 

, II. 12 



178 THE grandmother's APOLOOT. 

5. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 



6. 

When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred I 



THE GRANDMOTHER'S APOLOGY. 

I. 

And Willy, my eldest bom, is gone, you say, little 
Anne ? 

Ruddy and Avhite, and strong on his legs, he looki 
like a man. 

And Willy's wife has written : she never was over- 
wise. 

Never the wife for Willy: he wouldn't take mv 
advice. 



THE grandmother's APOLOGY. 179 



tl. 

For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to 

save, 
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into 

his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty I but I was against it 

for one. 
Eh 1 — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you 

say, is gone. 

ni. 

Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the 

flock, 
Kever a man could fling him : for Willy stood like 

a rock. 
** Here's a leg for a babe of a week ! " says doctor ; 

and he would be bound, 
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes 

round. 

IV. 

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still 

of his tongue I 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went 

so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far 

away. 

V. 

Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am 

hard and cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so 

old: 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the 

rest; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with 

the best 



180 THE grandmother's APOLOGT. 



VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I bad witb your father^ 

my dear, 
All for a slanderous stor}^, tbat cost me many a 

tear. 
[ mean your grandfatber, Annie : it cost me a world 

of woe, 
Seventy jears ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, bad come to tbe place, and 

I knew rigbt well 
Tbat Jenny bad tript in ber time : I knew, but I 

would not tell. 
And sbe to be coming and slandering me, tbe base 

little liar 1 
But tbe tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, tbe 

tongue is a fire. 

VIII. 

And tbe parson made it bis text tbat week, and be 

said likewise, 
Tbat a lie wbicb is balf a trutb is ever tbe blackest 

of lies, 
Tbat a lie wbicb is all a lie may be met and fougbt 

witb outrigbt. 
But a lie wbicb is part a trutb is a barder matter to 

figbt. 

IX. 

And Willy bad not been down to tbe farm for a 

week: and a day ; 
And all things look'd balf-dead, tbo* it was tbe 

middle of. May. 
Jenny, to slander me, wbo knew wbat Jenny bad 

been 1 
But soiling anotber, Annie, will never make onesell 

clean. 



THE grandmother's APOLOGY. 181 



X. 

And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of as 

evening late 
I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the 

i-oad at the gate. 
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 
And whit, whit, wliit, in the bush beside me chiiTupt 

the ni;>htingale. 

XI. 

All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of 

the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on 

his arm. 
Out Into the road I staned, and spoke I scarce 

knew how ; 
Ah, there's no tool like the old one — it makes me 

angry now. 

XII. 

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing 

that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and 

went. 
And I said, " Let us part : in a hundred years it'll 

all be the same, 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good 

name." 

XIII. 

And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the 

sweet moonshine : 
** Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good 

name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you 

well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy 

still." 



182 THE grandmother's APOLOGT. 



XIV. 

"Marry you, Willy!" said I, "but I needs must 

speak my mind, 
I fear you '11 listen to tales, be jealous and hard 

and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt mg in his arms, and an- 

swer'd, " No, love, no ; " 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

XV. 

So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac 

gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the 

ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he 

was born. 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and 

thorn. 

xvr. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of 

death. 
There lay the sweet little body that never had 

drawn a breath. 
1 had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a 

wife; 
But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had 

fought for his hfe. 

xvir. 
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger 

or pain : 
1 look'd at the still little body — his troable had all 

been in vain. 
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another 

morn : 
But I wept like a child for the child that was deai 

before he was born. 



THE grandmother's APOLOGY. 183r 



xvin. 
But he cheer*d me, my good man, for he seldom 

said me nay : 
Kmd, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would 

have his way : 
Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy 

year; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time 

seem'd so near. 

XIX. 

But I wish'd It had been God's will that I, too, then 

could have died : 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at 

his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't 

forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me 

yet. 

XX. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left mo 
at two. 

Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like 
you: 

Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at 
her will. 

While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie plough- 
ing the hill. 

XXI. 

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they 
sing to their team : • 

Often they come tc the door in a pleasant kind of a 
dream. 

They come and sit by my chair, they hover about 
my bed — 

I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 



184 THE grandmother's apoloot. 



And yet 1 know for a truth, there's none of then 

left alive ; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And AVilly, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and 

ten ; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly 

men. 

XXIII. 

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I 

grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at 

eve: 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, 

and so do I ; 
1 find myself often laughing at things that have 

long gone by. 

XXIV. 

To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make 

us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to 

be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life 

shall cease ; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one 

of Peace. 

XXV. 

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from 

pain. 
And happy has been my life ; but I would not live 

it ainjain. 
I seem to te tired a little, that 's all, and long for 

rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with 

the best 



SEA DREAMS. AN IDYL. 185 



XXVI. 

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my 

flower ; 
Bat how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for 

an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the 

next ; 
I^ too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to 

be vext ? 

XXVII. 

And Willy's wife has written, she never was over- 
wise. 

Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep 
my eyes. 

There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past 
away. 

But stay Avith the old woman now : you cannot have 
long to stay. 



SEA DEEAMS. AN IDYL. 

A CITY clerk, but gently bom and bred ; 
His wife — an unknown artist's orphan child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old ; 
They, thiiiking that her clear germander eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, 
Came, with a month's leave given them, to tlie sea : 
For which his gains Avere dock'd, however small : 
Small were his gains, and hard his work ; besides, 
Their slender househoM fortunes (for the man 
Had risk'd his little), like the little thrift, 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep : 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would dai'ken, as he cursed his credulousness, 



186 SEA DRBAMS. AN IDYL. 

And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, 

rogue, 
To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast, 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave, 
At close of day ; slept, woke, and went the next, 
The Sabbath, pious variers from the church. 
To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer, 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple men. 
Announced the coming doom, and fulminated 
Against the scarlet woman and her creed : 
For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd 
" Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel ; " Thus with violence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 
Then comes the close." The gentle-hearted wife 
Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 
He at his own : but when the wordy storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore, 
Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed 
(The sootflake of so many a summer still 
Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff, 
Lingering about the thymy promontories, 
Till all the sails were darken'd in the west. 
And rosed in the east : then homeward and to bed : 
Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope 
Haunting a holy text, and still to that 
Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 
" Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," 
Said, " Love, forgive him : " but he did not speak ; 
A.nd silenced by that silence lay the wife. 
Remembering her dear Lord who died for all, 
A.nd musing on the little lives of men, 
^nd how they mar this little by their feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a full tide 



SEA DREAMS. AN IDYL. 187 

Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost 

rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, 
Their Margaret, cradled near them, waii'd and 

woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 
" A wreck, a wreck ! " then turn'd, and groaning said, 

" Forgive ! How many will say, ' forgive,* and find 
A sort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper first ? 
Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast 
Something divine to warn them of their foes : 
And such a sense, when first I fronted him. 
Said, ' trust him not ; ' but after, when I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him less ; 
Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for his talk ; 
Went further, fool I and trusted him with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 
Of dust and deskwork : there is no such mine. 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the sea roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 

" Not fearful ; fair,'* 
Said the good wife, " if every star in heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams ? " 



188 SEA DREAMS. AN IDYL. 

" O yes," he said, " I dream*d 
Of such a tide STvelling toward the land, 
And I from out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter d one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. 
I thought tiie motion of the boundless deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was heaved upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' I thought, 

* To live in ! * but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond : 
And near the light a giant woman sat, 

All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 

A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 

Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 

As high as heaven, and every bird that sings : 

And here the night-light flickering in my eyes 

Awoke me." 

" That was then your dream," she said, 
** Not sad, but sweet." 

*' So sweet, I lay," said he, 
*' And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still 
The motion of the great deep bore me on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : 

* It came,* she said, ' by working in the mines:* 
O then to ask her of my shares, I thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a Avord ; she shook her head. 
And then the motion of the current ceased, 
And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep hill 
Trod out a path : I foliow'd ; and at top 

She pointed seaward : there a fleet of gla^ 



BEA DREAMS. AN IDYL. 



189 



That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, 

Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 

That not one moment ceased to thunder, past 

In sunshine : right across its track there lay, 

Down in the Wc\ter, a long reef of gold, 

Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first 

To think that in "our often-ransack'd world 

Still so much gold was left ; and then I fear'd 

Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, 

And fearing waved my arm to waru them off; 

An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 

(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, 

Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I 

woke, 
I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 
My dream was Life ; the woman honest Work; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 

" Nay," said the kindly wife to comfort him, 
" You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it; 
And, breaking that, you made and broke your 

dream : 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

« No trifle," groan'd the husband ; " yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which I ask'd the v/oman in my dream. 
Like her, he shook liis head. ' Show me the books !* 
He (lodged me with a long and loose account. 
' The books, the books ! ' but he, he could not wait. 
Bound on a matter lie of life and death: 
When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant me well; 
And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 
All over with the fat aflectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. 'My dearest friend, 
Have faith, have faith 1 We live by faith,' said he ; 



190 SEA DREAMS. AN IDYL. 

* And all things work together for the good 

Of those * — it makes me sick to quote him — last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went. 
I stood hke one that had received a blow : 
I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far away, 
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd, 
Read rascal in the motions of his back, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul ? '* said the good 

wife; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, love, 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about 
A silent court of justice in his breast. 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd : 
And that drags down his life : then comes what 

comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he meant. 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well.** 

" ' With all his conscience and one eye askew * — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself. 
Too often, in that silent court of yours — 

* With all his conscience and one eye askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for gain. 

So never took that useful name in vain ; 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool. 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, 



SEA DREAMS. AN IDYL. 191 

And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which himself had thriven * 
How like you this old satii'e ? '* 

" Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it ; he had never kindly heart. 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream*d 
Of that same coast. 

— But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapour, lay, 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on those cliffs 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more. 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see, 
One after one : and then the great ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back, 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder fell ; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters round, 
Some crying, " Set them up ! they shall not fall I * 
And others " Let them lie, for they have fall'n **' 



192 SEA DREAMS. AN IDYL. 

And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not wliy, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note ; and ever as their shrieks 
Han highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd then- eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, 
To the waste deeps together. 

« Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images. 
Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars,— 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child 
High up on one of those dark minster-fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
AVhich mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke, 
And my dream awed me : — well — but what are 

dreams ? 
Yours came but from the breaking of a glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a child.'* 

" Child? No!" said he, "but this tide's roar, and 
his, 
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom. 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, 
Why, that would make our passions far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. Ko — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hynms of heaven: 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil f" 

" ' True ' indeed I 
One of our town, but later by an hour 



SEA DREAMS. AN IDTL. 193 

Here than ourselves, spoke "with me on the shore ; 
While you were running down the sands, and made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap, 
Good man, to please the child. She brought strange 

news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night ? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving him 
Before you knew. AVe 7nust forgive the dead." 

"Dead! who is dead?" 

" The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease." 

" Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what heart had he 
To die of? dead!" 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge him with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep 
Without her ' little birdie ? ' well then, sleep, 
And I will sing you ' bu'die.' " 

Saying this. 
The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, 
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embraced the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pKant bough 
That moving moves the nest and ni'stling, sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
TOL. n. 13 



194 TITH0NU9. 

Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer. 
Baby too shall fly away. 

« She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear. 
And I shall sleep the sounder 1 " 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : 
I do forgive him I '* 

" Thanks, my love," she said, 
" Your own will be the sweeter," and they slept. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall. 
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 



TITH0NU9. 195 

A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream 
The ever silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 
AVho madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God ! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills, 
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love. 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men. 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom. 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
W^hich love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 



198 TITHONUS. 

In silence, then before tliine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? 
" The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.'* 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what anotlier heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming I'ound thee ; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East: 
How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up trom those dim fields about the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt sec my grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts. 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



' Flos Regum Arthurus." 

Joseph of Exeteb. 



DEDICATION. 



These to his memory — since he held them dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
These Idylls. • • 

And indeed he seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
" Who reverenced his conscience as his king ; 
Whose glor}' was, redressing human wrong ; 
Wlio spake 'no slander, no, nor listened to it; 
Who lo%'ed one only and who clave to her" — 
Her — over all whose realms to their last isle. 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war 
The shadow of his loss moved like eclipse, 
Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone 
We know him now: all naiTow jealousies 
Are silent; and we see him as he moved, 
How modest, kindly, all accomplish'd, wise, 
With what sublime repression of himself, 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
Not swaying to this faction or to that; 
Not making his high place the lawless perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage ground 
For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, 
Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne. 
And blackens every blot: for where is he, . 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his? 
Or how should England dreaming of Ids sons 
Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 
Laborious for her people and her poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 



too DEDICATION. 

Far-sighted snmmoner of war and waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, 
Beyond all titles, and a household name, 
Hereafter, through :all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, woman's heart, but still endure; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, 
jRemembering all tiie beauty of tliat star 
"Which shone so close beside thee, that ye made 
One light togetlier, but has past and left 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

Maj' all love, 
His love, tinseen but felt, o'ershadow thee, 
The love of all thy sons encompass thee, 
The love of all thy daughters cherish thee. 
The love of all thy people comfort thee, 
Till God's love set thee at his side again I 

isea. 



ENID. 



The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, 

A tributary prince of Devon, one 

Of that great order of the Table Round, 

Had wedded Enid, Yniol's only child, 

And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. 

And as the light of Heaven varies, now 

At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 

With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint 

To make her beauty vary day by day. 

In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 

And Enid, but to please her husband's eye, 

Who first had found and loved her in a state 

Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 

[n some fresh splendour ; and the Queen herself, 

Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, 

Loved her, and often with her own white hands 

Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, 

Next after her own self, in all the court. 

And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart 

Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 

And loveliest of all women upon earth. 

And seeing them so tender and so close, 

Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. 

But when a rumour rose about the Queen, 

Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 

Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard 

The world's loud whisper breaking into storm, 

Not less Geraint believed it ; and there fell 

A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 



202 ENID. 

Thro* that great tenderness for Guinevere, 

Had suifer'd, or should suffer any taint 

In nature : wherefore going to the king, 

He made this pretext, that his pnncedom lay 

Close on the borders of a territory, 

Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights, 

Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 

Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : 

And therefore, till the king himself should please 

To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm, 

He craved a fair permission to depart. 

And there defend his marches ; and the king 

Mused for a little on his plea, but, last. 

Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, 

And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores 

Of Severn, and they passed to their own land J 

Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife 

True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 

He compass'd her with sweet observances 

And worship, never leaving her, and grew 

Forgetful of his promise to the king. 

Forgetful of the talcon and the hunt, 

Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 

Forgetful of his glory and his name, 

Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 

And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. 

And by and by the people, when they met 

In twos and threes, or fuller companies. 

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him 

As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, 

And molten down in mere uxoriousness. 

And this she gather'd from the people's eyes : 

This too the women who attired her head, 

To please her, dwelling on his boundless love^ 

Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more : 

And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy ; 

While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 



ENID. 203 

At last, it chanced that on a summer mom 
(They sleeping each by other) the new sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of the room, 
And heated the strong warrior in his dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
And bared the knotted column of his throat, 
The massive square of his heroic breast. 
And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone. 
Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, 
Admiring him, and thought within herself, 
Was ever man so grandly made as he ? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over him, 
Low to her own heart piteously she said : 

' O noble breast and all-puissant arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is gone ? 
I am the cause because I dare not speak 
And tell him what I think and what they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his name. 
Far liever had I gird his harness on him. 
And ride with him to battle and stand by, 
And watch his mightful hand striking great blo'wa 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 
Not hearing any more his noble voice. 
Not to be folded more in these dear arms, 
And darken'd from the high light in his eyes. 
Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, 
Or may be pierced to death before mine eyes 
And yet not dare to tell him what I think. 
And how men slur him, saying all his force 



SOi ENID. 

Is melted into mere effeminacy ? 

me, I fear that I am no true wife.* 

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, 
And the strong passion in her made her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked breast, 
And these awoke him, and by great mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. 
And then he thought, ' In spite of all my care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, 
She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.* 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul act. 
Right thro* his manful breast darted the pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed. 
And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 
' My charger and her palfrey,' then to her, 
' I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, 

1 have not fall'n so low as some would wish. 
And you, put on your worst and meanest dress 
And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd, amazed, 
' If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.' 

But he, ' I charge you, ask not but obey.* 
Then she bethought her of a foded silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil, 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
Wherein she kept them fol<lcd reverently 
With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, 
She took them, and array'd herself therein. 
Remembering when first he came on her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 



ENID. 205 

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day, he sitting hiuh in hall, 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white. 
First seen that day : these thinss he told the king. 
Then the good kino; gave order to let blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for his leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 
So with the morning all the court were gone. 
But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; 
But rose at last, a single maiden with her, 
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 
Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard instead 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, 
Late also, wearing neffner hunting-dress 
Nor weapon, save a golden-hllted brand. 
Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford 
Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
There swung an apple of the purest gold, 
Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up 
To join them, glancing hke a dragon-fly 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, 
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him : 
Late, late. Sir Prince,' she said, ' later than we I 

* Yea, noble Queen,' he answei''d, ' and so late 
That I but come like you to see the hunt, 

"Not join it.' ' Therefore wait with me,' she said ; 

♦ For on this little knoll, if anywhere. 

There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds: 
Here often they break covert at our feet* 



806 ENID. 

And while they listened for the distant hnnt, 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there redo 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight 
Had visor up, and show'd a youthful face, 
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the king's hall, desired his name, and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; 
Who being vicious, old and irritable. 
And doubling all his master's vice of pride, 
Made answer sharply that she should not know. 

* Then will I ask it of himself,' she said. 

* Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,* cried the dwarf { 

* Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him ; ' 
And when she put her horse toward the knight, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; at which Geraint 
Exclaiming, * Surely I will learn the name,' 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him, 
Who answer'd as before ; and when the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward the knight. 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf. 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 

But he, from his exceeding manfulness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning said : 

* I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 
Done in your maiden's person to yourself: 
And I will track this vermin to their earths : 
For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms 
On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being found, 
Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, 



ENID. 207 

And on the third day, will again be here, 
So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell.* 

'Farewell, fair Prince,* answer'd the stately 
Queen. 
Be prosperous in this journey, as in all ; 
And may you light on all things that you love, 
And live to wed with her whom first you love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride. 
And I, were she the daughter of a king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals hke the sun.* 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode. 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following the three. 
At last they issued from the world of wood. 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge. 
And showed themselves against the sky, and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and underneath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side of which. 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose ; 
And on one side a castle in decay, 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine : 
And out of town and valley came a noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the three, 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 
So,' thought Geraint, ' I have track'd him to hia 
earth.' 
And down the long street riding wearily, 
Found every hoatel full, and everywhere 



208 ENID. 

Was hammer laid to boof, and tte hot hiss 

And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd 

His masters armour ; and oi" such a one 

He ask'd, ' What means the tumult in the town ? 

Who told him, scourinc: still, 'The sparrow-hawk I 

Then riding close behind an ancient churl, 

Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, 

AVent sweating underneath a sack of corn, 

Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here? 

AVho answer'd gruffly, ' Ugh ! the spaiTOW-hawk.* 

Then riding further past an armourer's. 

Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work| 

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee. 

He put the self-same query, but the man 

Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 

' Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk 

Has little time for idle questioners.' 

Whereat Geraint flash 'd into sudden spleen : 

' A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk I 

Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead 

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg 

The murmur of the world ! What is it to me ? 

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, 

Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks 1 

Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk-mad, 

Where can I get me harbourage for the night? 

And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy ? Speak ! 

At this the armourer turning all amazed 

And seeing one so gay in purple silks, 

Came forward with the helmet yet in hand 

And answer'd, ' Pardon me, O stranger knight ; 

We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn. 

And there is scantly time for half the work. 

Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are wanted here. 

Harbourage V truth, good truth, 1 know not, save, 

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge 

Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, 



ENID. 209 

Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. 
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, 
(His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, 
Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said : 

* Wiiither, fair son ? ' to whom Geraint replied, 

* O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.' 
Then Yniol, ' Enter therefore and partake 
The slender entertainment of a house 
Once rich, now jwor, but ever open-door'd.* 

* Thanks, venerable friend,' replied Geraint; 

* So that you do not serve nie sparrow-hawks 
For supper, I will enter, I will eat 

With ail the passion of a twelve hours* fast* 
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, 
And answer'd, ' Graver cause than yours is mine 
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: 
But in, go in ; for save your&eif desire it. 
We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest' 

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, 
His charger trampling many a prickly star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern 
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower. 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, 
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers : 
And high above a piece of turret stair. 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms. 
And suuk'd the joining of the stones, and look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 

And while he waited in the castle court, 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, 
Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
VOL. u. 14 



210 ENID. 

Moves Mm to think what kind of bird It is 

That sings so delicately clear, and make 

Conjecture of the plumage and the form; 

So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ; 

And made him like a man abroad at morn 

When first the Uquid note beloved of men 

Comes flying over many a windy wave 

To Britain, and in April suddenly 

Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, 

And he suspends his converse with a friend, 

Or it may be the labour of his hands, 

To think or say, ' there is the nightingale ; * 

So fared it with Geraint, who thought and SEwd, 

* Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.* 

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang : 

* Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the 

proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro* sunshine, storm, and 

cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

*Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or 
frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great 

* Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

* Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.' 

*Hark, by the bird's song you may learn the 
nest,' 



BKID. 211 

Said Ynlol ; * Enter quickly.* Entering then, 

Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, 

The dusky-rafter'd many-fobweb'd Hall, 

He found an ancient dame in dim brocade ; 

And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, 

That lightly breaks a faded llower-sheath, 

Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk. 

Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, 

' Here by God's rood is the one maid for me.' 

But none spake word except the hoary Earl : 

* Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court, 

Take him to stall, and give him corn, and thea 

Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine ; 

And we will make us merry as we may. 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.* 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said ' Forbear 1 
Kest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my Son, 
Endures not that her guest should serve hunself.' 
And reverencing the custom of the house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the stall ; 
And after went her way across the bridge, 
And reach'd the town, and while the Prince and 

Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. 
A.nd Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, 
And in her ved enfolded, manchet bread. 
And then, because their hall must also serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the board, 
And stood behind, and waited on the three. 
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
Xo stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, 



212 sarin; 

That crost the trencher as she laid it lown r 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 
Now here, now there, about the dusky haU ; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl : 

* Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy ; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he, tell me of him. 
His name ? but no, good faith, I will not have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late I saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your town. 
White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return*d 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his hold, 
And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round the world ; 
They would not hear me speak : but if you know 
Where I can light on arms, or if yourself 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn 
That 1 will break his pride and learn his name, 
Avenging this great insult done the Queen.' 

Then cried Earl Yniol. * Art thou he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among men 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, when first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
Felt you were somewhat, yea and by your state 
And presence might have guess'd you one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 



EOTD. 213 

Nor speak 1 now from foolish flattery ; 

For this dear child hath often heard me praise 

Your feats of arms, and often when I paused 

Hath ask'd agciin, and ever loved to hear; 

So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 

To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong : 

never yet had woman such a pair 
Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, 

A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he dead 

1 know not, but he past to the wild land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, 
My curse, my nephew — I will not let his name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — he. 
When I that knew him fierce and turbulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ; 
And since the proud man often is the mean, 
He sow'd a slander in the common ear, 
Affirming that his father left him gold, 

And in my charge, which was not render'd to himj 

Bribed with large promises the men who served 

About my person, the more easily 

Because my means were somewhat broken into 

Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 

Raised my own town against me in the night 

Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house ; 

From mine own earldom foully ousted me ; 

Built that new fort to overawe my friends, 

For truly there are those who love me yet ; 

And keeps me in this ruinous castle here, 

AVherc doubtless he would put me soon to death, 

But that his pride too much despises me : 

And I myself sometimes despise myself; 

For I have let men be, and have their way ; 

Am much too gentle, have not used my power : 

Nor know I whether I be very base 

Or very manful, whether very wise 

Or very foolish ; only this I know. 

That whatsoever evil happen to xae, 



214 ENID. 

I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently.' 

' Well said, frue heart,' replied Geraiut, * bul 
arms : 
That if, as I suppose, your nephew fights 
In next day's tourney I may break his pride 

And Yniol answer'd, 'Arms, indeed, but old 
4nd rusty, old and rusty. Prince Geraint, 
Are mine, and therefore, at your asking yours. 
But in this tournament can no man tilt, 
Except the lady he loves best be there. 
Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, 
And over these is laid a silver wand, 
And over that is placed the sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, what knight soever be in field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side, 
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, 
"Who being apt at arms and big of bone 
Has ever won it for the lady with him. 
And toppling over all antagonism 
Has caru'd himself the name of sparrow-hawk. 
But you, that have no lady, cannot fight.' 

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, 
Leaning a little toward him, ' Your leave I 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, ' 
For this dear child, because I never saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name Avill yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before; but if I hve, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost. 
As 1 will make her truly my true wife.* 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart 
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. 



EJflD. 211 

And looking round he saw not Enid there, 
(Who hearing her own name had sHpt away) 
But that old dame, to whom full tenderly 
And fondling all her hand in his he said, 
* Mother, a maiden is a tender thing. 
And best by her that bore her understood. 
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince. 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she 
With frequent smile and nod departing found. 
Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand. 
And kept her off and gazed upon her face, 
And told her all their converse in the hall. 
Proving her heart : but never light and shade 
Coursed one another more on open ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
While slowly faUing as a scale that falls, 
When weight is added only grain by grain, 
Sauk her sweet head upon her gentle breast ; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, 
Kapt in the fear and in the wonder of it ; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, 
And waited there for Yniol and Geraint 

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could move 



216 EXID. 

The cbair of Idns. Yniol's rusted arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' these 
Prinoehke his bearing shone ; and errant knightl 
And ladies came, and by and by the town 
Flow'd in, and settling, circled all the lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the giound, 
And over these they placed a silver wand 
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, 
Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd 
' Advance and take as fairest of the fair, 
For I these two years past have won it for thee. 
The prize of beauty.* Loudly spake the Prince, 

* Forbear : there is a worthier,' and the knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 
*Do battle for it then,' no more ; and thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they brake tbeiJ 

spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each 
So often and with such blows, that all the crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from distant wall5< 
There came a clapping as of phantom hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and 

still 
The dew of their great labour, and the blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. 
But either's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, 

* Remember that great iiisult done the Queen,* 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone. 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast. 

And said, * Thy name ? ' To whom the iallen man 
Made answer, groaning, ' Edyrn, son of Nudd ! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 
My pride is broken : men have seen my fall.' 
Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied Geraint, 



ENID. 217 

* These two things shalt thou do, or else thoia 

diest. 
First, thou thyself, thy lady, and thy dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and being there, 
Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it ; next. 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.* 
And Edyrn answer'd, ' These things will I do, 
For I have never yet been overthrown. 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall ! ' 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, 
And there the Queen forgave him easily. 
And being young, he changed himself, and gre"W 
To hate the sin that seem'd so like his own 
Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell at last 
In the great battle fighting for the king. 

But when the third day from the hunting-morn 
Made a low splendour in the world, and wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow light 
Among the dancing shadows of the birds. 
Woke and bethought her of her promise given 
No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third day, 
He would not leave her, till her promise given — 
To ride with him this morning to the court. 
And there be made known to the stately Queen, 
And there be wedded witl^ll ceremony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress. 
And thought it never yet had look'd so mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to the dress 
{She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint 
And still she look'd, and still the terror grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court, 



218 ENID. 

All staring at her in her faded silk : 

And softly to her own sweet heart she said : 

* This noble prince who won our earldom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him I 
Would he could tarry with us here awhile I 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us, 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, 
To seek a second favour at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two. 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, 
Far liefer than so much discredit him.* 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the night 
Before her birthday, three sad years ago. 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their house, 
And scatter'd all they had to all the winds : 
For while the mother show'd it, and the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled 
With little save the jewels they had on, 
Which being sold and sold had bought them bread 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin ; and she wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her ancient home ; 
Then let her fancy flit Across the past. 
And roam the goodly places that she knew ; 
And last bethought her how she used to watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of golden carp ; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool ; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
.And the gay court, and fell asleep again; 



ENID. 219 

And dreamt herself was such a faded form 

Among her burnlsh'd sisters of the pool; 

But this was in the garden of a king ; 

And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew 

That all was bright ; that all about were birds 

Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; 

That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd 

Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 

And lords and ladies of the high court went 

In silver tissue talking things of state ; 

And children of the king in cloth of gold 

Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks , 

And while she thought ' they will not see me,' came 

A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, 

And all the children in their cloth of gold 

Ran to her, crying, ' if we have fish at all 

Let them be gold ; and charge the gardeners now 

To pick the faded creature from the pool, 

And cast it on the mixen that it die.' 

And therewithal one came and seized on her, 

And Enid started waking, with her heart 

All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, 

And lo ! it was her mother grasping her 

To get her well awake ; and in her hand 

A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 

Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly : 

* See here, my child, how fresh the colours look, 
How fast they hold, like colours of a shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. 
Why not ? it never yet was worn, I trow : 
Look on it, child, and tell me if you know it.* 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream : 
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced. 
And answer'd, ' Yea, I know it ; your good gift, 
So sadly lost on that unliappy night ; 
^our own good gift ! ' ' Yea, surely,' said the damOi 



220 ENID. 

*And gladly given again this happy mom. 

For when the jousts were ended yesterday, 

Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere 

He found the sack and plunder of our house 

All scattered thro' the houses of the town ; 

And gave command that all which once was ours, 

Should now be ours again : and yester-eve, 

While you were talking sweetly with your Fiince, 

Came one with this and laid it in my hand, 

For love or fear, or seeking favour of us. 

Because we have our earldom back again. 

And yester-eve I would not tell you of it. 

But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 

Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 

For I myself unwillingly have worn 

My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, 

And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 

Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house. 

With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, 

And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, 

And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all 

That appertains to noble maintenance. 

Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house ; 

But since our fortune slipt from sun to shade, 

And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 

Constrain'd us, but a better time has come ; 

So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 

Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride : 

For tho' you won the prize of fairest fair. 

And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair, 

Let never maiden think, however fair, 

She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 

And should some great court-lady say, the Prince 

Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge. 

And like a madman brought her to the court, 

Then were you shamed, and, worse, might shame 

the Prince 
To whom we are beholden ; but I know, 
When my dear child is set forth at her best, 



ENID. 221 

That neither court Eor country, tho* they sought 

Thro' all the provinces like those of old 

That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.* 

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay ; 
Then, as the white and glittering star of mom 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose. 
And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said, 
She never yet had seen her half so fair ; 
And call'd her ' like that maiden in the tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers^ 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first 
Invaded Britain, but we beat him back, 
As this great prince invaded us, and we. 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to court. 
For old am I, and rough the ways and wild ; 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.* 

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately queen. 
He answer'd ; ' Earl, entreat her by my love, 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish. 
That she ride with me in her faded silk.' 
Yniol with that hard message went ; it fell. 
Like flaws in summer la} ing lusty corn : 
For Enid all abash'd she knew not why, 



222 ENID. 

Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, 
But silently, in all obedience, 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd gift, 
And robed them in her ancient suit again, 
And so descended. Never man rejoiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus attired ; 
And glancing all at once as keenly at her, 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil, 
"Made her ch6ek burn and either eyelid fall, 
But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; 
Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, 
Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said- 

' O my new mother, be not wroth or grisved 
At your new son, for my petition to her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet. 
Made promise, that whatever bride I brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heavep 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hold. 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that could I gain her, our kind Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your Enid burs'' 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought perha^*, 
That service done so graciously would bind 
The two together ; for I wish the two 
To love each other : how should Enid find 
A nobler friend ? Another thought I had ; 
I came among you here so suddenly, 
That tho' her gentle presence at the lists 
Might well have served for proof that I was lov^'1, 
I doubted whether filial tenderness. 
Or easy nature, did not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her weal ; 
Or whether some false sense in her own self 
Of my contrasting brightness, overbore 
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 
And such a sense might make her long for court 



ENID. 223 

And all its dangerous glories : and I thought, 
That could I someway prove such force in her 
Link'd with such love for me, that at a word 
(No reason given her) she could cast aside 
A splendour dear to women, new to her, 
And therefore dearer ; or if not so new, 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 
Of intermitted custom ; then I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I' do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy. 
That never shadow of mistrust can cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts : 
And for my strange petition I will make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 
When your fair child shall wear your costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, 
Who knows ? another gift of the high God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you 
thanks.' 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but half in tears, 
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had elimb*d 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow sea; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw^them come ; 
And then descending met them at the gates. 
Embraced her with all Avelcome as a friend. 
And did her honour as the Prince's bride, 
And clothed her for her bridals like the sun 
And all that week was old Caerleon gay, 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, 
They twain were wedded with all ceremony. 



224 ESiiD. 

And this was on tlie last year's Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
And all his journey toward her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 

And now this morning when he said to her. 
Put on your worst and meanest dress,* she found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein. 

O purblind race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
By taking true for false, or false for true; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
That other, where we see as we are seen 1 

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth 
That morning, when they both had got to horse, 
Perhaps because he loved her passionately. 
And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
* Not at my side ! I charge you ride before 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge you, on your duty as a wife, 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me, 
No, not a word ! ' and Enid was aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, 
When crying out' Effeminate as I am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded arms, 
AH shall be iron ; ' he loosed a mighty purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire 



ENID. 225 

Chafing Ills slioulder : then he cried again, 

' To the wilds ! ' and Enid leading down the tracks 

Thro' which he bade her lead hiin on, they past 

The marches, and by bandit-haunted holes, 

Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hem, 

And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode : 

Kound was their pace at first, but slacken'd soon : 

A stranger meeting them had surely thought, 

They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale, 

That each had suffer'd some exceeding >vrong 

For he was ever saying to himself 

' O I that wasted time to tend upon her, 

To compass her with sweet observances. 

To dress her beautifully and keep her true' — 

And there he broke the sentence in his heart 

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 

May break it, when his passion masters him. 

And she was ever praying the sweet heavens 

To save her dear lord whole from any wound. 

And ever in her mind she cast about 

For that unnoticed falling in herself, 

Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ; 

Till the great plover's human whistle amazed 

Her heart, and glancing round the waste she 

fear'd 
In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 
Then thought again ' if there be such in me, 
I might amend it by the grace of heaven. 
If he would only speak and tell me of it.' 

But when the fourth part of the day was gone, 
Tlien Enid was aware of three tall knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, ' Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have his horse 
And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.' 

VOL. II. 15 



226 ENID. 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and s^d i 
* I will go back a little to my lord, 
And I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying mo. 
Far liever by his dear hand had I die. 
Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.* 

Then she went back some paces of return, 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and said : 
' My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them loast 
That they would slay you, and possess your horse 
And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.* 

He made a wrathful answer. ' Did I wish 
Your silence or your warning ? one command 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me. 
And thus you keep it I Well then, look — for 

now, 
Whether you wish me victory or defeat, 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death, 
Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful. 
And down upon him bare the bandit three. 
And at the midmost charging. Prince Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast 
And out beyond ; and then against his brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of woman bom 
The three gay suits of armour which they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits 
Of armour on their horses, each on each. 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 



ENID. 22? 

Together, and said to her, ' Drive them on 
Before you ; ' and she drove them thro' the waste. 

He follow'd nearer ; ruth began to work 
Against his anger in him, while he watch'd 
The being he loved best in all the world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her, 
And loosed in words of sudden tire the wrath 
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all w^ithin ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her detd, 
Than to cry ' Halt,' and to her own bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the 

more 
That she could speak whom his own ear had 

heard 
Call herself false ; and suffering thus he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again. 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd. 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, ' Look, a prize 1 
Three horses and three goodly suits of arms. 
And all in charge of whom ? a girl : set on ' 
' Nay ' said the second, ' yonder comes a knight. 
The third, ' A craven ; ho\^ he hangs his head.* 
The giant answer'd merrily, ' Yea, but one ? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.* 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and said, 
* 1 will abide the coming of my lord. 
And I will tell him all their villainy. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 



228 Exn>. 

And they will fall upjn him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his harm ? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine.' 

And she abode his coming and said to him 
With timid firmness, ' Have I leave to speak ? 
He said, * You take it, speaking,' and she spoke. 

* There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one 
Is larger limb'd than you are, and they say 
That they will fall upon you while you pass/ 

To which he flung a wrathful answer back : 
* And if there were an hundred in the wood, 
And every man were larger-limb'd than I, 
And all at once should sally out upon me, 
I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside, 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' 

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home. 
And then brake short, and down his enemy roU'd, 
And there lay still ; as Be that tells the tale, 
Saw once a great piece of a promontory. 
That had a sapling growing on it, slip 
From the long shore-clitF's windy walls to tha 

beach. 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair 
01' comrades, making slowlier at the Prince, 



ENID. 229 

When now thej saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound them more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for as one, 
That listens near a torrent mountain-brook. 
All thro' the crash of the near catai-act hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false pair who tum'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lanco 
That pleased him best, and drew from those dead 

wolves 
Their three gay suits of armour, each from each, 
And bound them on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, ' Drive them on 
Before you,' and she drove them thro' the wood. 

He follow'd nearer still : the pain she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her heart : 
And they themselves, like creatures gently born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender government. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past, 
And issuing under open heavens beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock. 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased 
In the broAvn wild, and mowers mowing in it : 
And down a rocky pathway from the place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers : and Geraint 



230 ENID. 

Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 

Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, 

He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said, 

' Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint/ 

' Yea, willingly,' replied the youth ; ' and you, 

My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse, 

And only meet for mowers ; ' then set down 

His basket, and dismounting on the sward 

They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. 

A-nd Enid took a little delicately, 

Less having stomach for it than desire 

To close with her lord's pleasure ; but Geraint 

Ate all the mowers* victual unawares, 

And when he found all empty, was amazed ; 

And ' Boy,' said he, ' I have eaten all, but take 

A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose the best.* 

He, reddening in extremity of delight, 

* My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 

' You will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince. 

* I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, 
' Not guerdon ; for myself can easily. 

While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl ; 
For these are his, and all the field is his, 
And I myself am his ; and I will tell him 
How great a man you are : he loves to know 
When men of mark are in his territory : 
And he will have you to his palace here, 
And serve you costlier than with mowers* fare.* 

Then said Geraint, ' 1 wish no better fare • 
I never ate with angrier ajipetite 
Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. 
And into no Earl's palace will I go. 
I know, God knows, too much of palaces 1 
And if he want me, let him come to me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the night, 
And stalling for the horses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let us know.* 



ENID. 281 

' Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went. 
Hdd his head high, and thought himself a knight, 
Ard up the rocky pathway disappeared, 
Leading the horse, and they were left alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own false doom, 
That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth remark'd 
The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless. 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe, 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, 
And all the windy clamour of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they went ; 
Where, after saying to her, ' If you will, 
Call for the woman of the house,' to which 
She answer'd, ' Thanks, my lord ; ' the two remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth. 
Or two wild men supporters of a shield. 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

3n a sudden, many a voice along the street, 
And heel against the pavement echoing, burst 
Their drowze ; and either started while the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall. 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers, 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enti^r'd the wild lord of the place, Limours. 



232 ENIT>. 

He moving up with pliant courtliness, 

Greeted .:ieraint full face, but stealthily. 

In the mid- warmth of welcome and graspt hand, 

Found Enid with the corner of his eye, 

And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 

Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer 

To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously 

According to his fashion, bad the host 

Call in what men soever were his friends, 

And feast with these in honour of their earl ; 

*And care not for the cost ; the cost is mine.' 

And wine and food were brought, and Earl 
Limours 
Drank till be jested with all ease, and told 
Free tales, and took the word and play'd up€«i it. 
And made it of two colours ; for his talk, 
When wine and free companions kindled him, 
"Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem 
Of fifty facets ; thus be moved the Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to applause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours, 
* Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and &pe^ 
To your good damsel there who sits apart. 
And seems so lonely ? ' ' My free leave ' he said ; 
' Get her to speak : she does not speak to me.' 
Then rose Limours and looking at his feet. 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly : 

' Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid my early and my only love, 
Enid the loss of whom has turn'd me wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see you here ? 
You are in my power at last, are in my power 
Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild. 
But keep a touch of sweet civihty 
Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. 



ENID. 233 

I thought, but that your fatlier came between, 
In formei days you saw me favourably. 
And if it were ^o do not keep it back ; 
Make nie a little happier : let me know it : 
Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see it with joy — 
You sit apart, you do not speak to him, 
You come with no attendance, page or maid, 
To serve you — does he \o\e you as of old ? 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
Tho men may bicker with the things they love, 
They would not make them laughable in all eyes, 
Not while they loved them ; and your wretched 

dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you no more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know it — pall'd — • 
For I know men : nor will you win him back, 
For the man's love once gone never returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of old : 
Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round: 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand : no ; I do not mean blood : 
Nor need you look so scared at what I say : 
My mahce is no deeper than a moat. 
No stronger than a wall : there is the keep ; 
lie shall not cross us more ; speak but the word : 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that made me 
The one true lover which you ever had, 
1 will make use of all the power I have. 
O pardon me ! the madness of that hour, 
When first I parted from you, moves me yet.* 

At this the tender sound of his own voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd his eyes, 



234 ENID. 

Moist as they wei e, wlne-liecated from the feast ; 
And ansvver'd with such craft as women use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave oif a chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and said : 

* Earl, If you love me as in former years, 
And do not practise on me, come with morn, 
And snatch me from him as by violence ; 
Leave me to-night : I am weary to the death.* 

Low at leave-taking, with his brandlsh'd pluma 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl, 
And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his men, 
How Enid never loved a man but him, 
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence given. 
And that she now perforce must violate it. 
Held commune with herself, and while she held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased 
To find him yet un wounded after fight, 
And hear him breathing low and equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd 
The pieces of his armour in one place. 
All to be there against a sudden need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, evermore 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then 
Went slipping down horrible precipices. 
And strongly striking out her limbs awoke ; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summonmg her ; 
Which was the red cock shouting to the light, 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, 
And gUmmer'd on his armour in the room 



ENID. 235 

And once again she rose to look at it, 

But touch'd it unawares : jangling, the casque 

Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 

Then breaking his command of silence given, 

She told him all that Earl Limours had said, 

Except the passage that he loved her not ; 

Nor left untold the crafl herself had used ; 

But ended with apology so sweet, 

Low-spoken, 

So justified by that necessity, 

That tho' he thought 'was it for him she wept 

In Devon ? ' he but gave a wrathful groan, 

Saying ' your sweet faces make good fellows fools 

And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring 

Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out 

Among the heavy breathings of the house. 

And like a household Spirit at the walls 

Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return'd : 

Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd, 

In silence, did him service as a squire ; 

Till issuing arm'd he found the host and cried, 

* Thy reckoning, friend ? ' and ere he learnt it^ 

' Take 
Five horses and their armours ; ' and the host. 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
*My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of onel* 

* You will be all the wealthier ' said the Prince, 
And then to Enid, ' Forward ! and to-day 

I charge you, Enid, more especially. 
What thing soever you may hear, or see, 
Or fancy (tho' I coimt it of small use 
To charge you) that you speak not but obey.* 

And Enid answer'd, ' Yea, my lord, I know 
Your wish, and would obey ; but riding fii*st, 
I hear the violent threats you do not hear, 
I see the danger which you cannot see : 
Then not to give you warning, that seecis hard j 
Almost beyond me : yet I would obey.' 



236 ENID. 

' Yea so,' said he, * do it : be not too wise ; 
Seeing that you are wedded to a man, 
Not quite mismated with a yawninir clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head and yours, 
With eyes to find you out however far. 
And ears to hear you even in his dreams/ 

With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 
A nd that within her, which a wanton fool. 
Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt, 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. 

Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, 
Led from the territory of false Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride 
More near by many a rood than yester-morn, 
It well nigh made her cheerful ; till Geraint 
Waving an angry hand as who should say 
' You watch me,' sadden'd all her heart again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, 
The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof 
Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw 
Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it 
Then not to disobey her lord's behest, 
And yet to give him warning, for he rode 
As if he heard not, moving back she held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
At which the warrior in his obstinacy. 
Because she kept the letter of his word 
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. 
And in the moment after, wild Limours, 
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm, 
Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, 



ENID. 231 

And all in passion ntterinjw a dry shriek, 

Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore 

Down by the length of lance and arm beyond 

The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead, 

And overthrew the next that foUow'd hlra, 

And bHndly rush'd on all the rout behind. 

But at the flash and motion of the man 

They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal 

Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 

Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 

Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, 

But if a man who stands upon the brink 

But lift a shining hand against the sun. 

There is not left the twinkle of a fin 

Betwixt the cressy islets white in floAver ; 

So, scared but at the motion of the man, 

Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, 

And left him lying in the public way ; 

So vanish friendships only made in wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. ' Horse and man,' he said, 
' All of one mind and all right-honest friends 1 
Not a hoof left ; and I methinks till now 
Was honest — paid with horses and with arms ; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say you, shall we strip him there 
Your lover V has your palfrey heart enough 
To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine ? 
No ? — then do you, being right honest, pray 
That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, 
I too would still be honest.' Thus he said : 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, 
And answering not one word, she led the way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it not. 



238 ENID. 

But coming back he learns it, and the loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 
In combat with the follower of Limours, 
Bled underneath his armour secretly, 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
TJ^o Prince, without a word, from his horse felL 

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms. 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, 
And tearing otT her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear lord*! 

life. 
Then after all was done that hand could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 

And many past, but none regarded her, 
For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer shower : 
One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him : 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : 
Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in his fear; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, 



ENID. 239 

And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved like a man 

But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances up ; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, 
Cried out with a big voice, ' What, is he dead ? ' 
' No, no, not dead ! ' she answer'd in all haste. 
' Would some of your kind people take him up, 
And bear him hence out of this cruel sun : 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.' 

TLen said Earl Doorm; 'Well, if he be not 
dead. 
Why wail you for him thus V you seem a chil(i. 
And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him : dead or not, 
You mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of you. 
Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall : 
An if he live, we will have him of our band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger too, 
A noble one.' 

He spake, and past away. 
But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it. 
Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growl'd. 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, 
Their chance of booty from the morning's raid 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, 
Buch as they brought upon their forays out 
For those that might be wounded ; laid him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and took 



240 Emi>. 

And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him unled) 
And cast him and the bier in which he lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as before, 
And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, 
And their own Earl, and their own souls, and 

her. 
They might as well have blest her : she was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord. 
There in the naked hall, propping his head. 
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. 
And at the last he waken'd from his swoon, 
And found his own dear bride propping his head, 
And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him ; 
And felt the warm tears falling on his face; 
And said to his own heart, 'she weeps for me:* 
And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead. 
That he might prove her to the uttermost, 
And say to his own heart ' she weeps for me.* 

But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise : 
Each hurling down a heap of things that rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, 
And dofT'd his helm : and then there fluttered in, 
Half-bold, half-frighttid, with dilated eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues. 
And mingled with the spearmen : and Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and quarter 

beeves. 
And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat down at once, 



ENID. 24} 

And ate wltb tumult in the naked hall, 

Feedinnj like horses when you hear them feed ; 

Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 

To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. 

But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, 

He roUM his eyes about the hall, and found 

A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 

Then he remember'd her, and hoAv she wept ; 

And out of her there came a power upon him ; 

And rising on the sudden he said, ' Eat ! 

I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 

God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. 

Eat! Look yourself Good luck had your good 

man. 
For were I dead who Is it would weep for me ? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath, 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself 
And so there lived some colour in your cheek, 
There is not one among my gentlewomen 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be ruled. 
And I will do the thing I have not done, 
For you shall share my earldom with me, girl. 
And we will live like two birds in one nest. 
And I will fetch you forage from all fields. 
For I compel all creatures to my will.' 

He spoke : the brawny spearman let his cheek 
Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turning 

stared ; 
While some, whose souls the old serpent long Lad 

drawn 
Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear 
"What shall not be recorded — women they, 
Women, or what had been those gracious thing*, 
But now desired the humbling of their best. 
Yea, would have hel[)ed him to it : and all at once 
They hated her, who took no thought of them 

VUL. IL. 16 



242 ENID. 

But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet 
Drooping, ' I pray you of your courtesy, 
He being as be is, to let me be.' 

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, 
But like a mighty patron, satisfied 
With what himself had done so graciously, 
Assumed that she had thanked him, 
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.* 

She answer'd meekly, ' How should I be glad 
Henceforth in all the world at anything. 
Until my lord arise and look upon me?* 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on her, 
And bare her by main violence to the board, 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, ' Eat.* 

* No, no,' said Enid, vext, ' I will not eat, 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise, 

And eat with me.' ' Drink, then,' he answer'd. 

'Here!' 
(And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her,) 
* Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I myself. 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat : 
Drink therefl>re, and the wine will change yoai 

will.' 

* Not so,' she cried, ' by Heaven, I ^vill not drink, 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it. 

And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, 
\ will not look at wine until I die.' 

At this he tum'd all red and paced his hall, 
A.'low gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, 
A ud coming up close to her, said at last ; 



ENID. 243 

Girl, for I see you scorn my courtesies, 
Take warninij : yonder man is surely dead ; 
And I compel all creatures to my will. 
Nor eat nor drink V And wherefore Avail for one, 
Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn 
By dresslnij it in rags ? Amazed am I, 
Beholding how you butt against my wish, 
That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. 
At least put off to please me this poor gown, 
^his silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : 
I love that beauty should go beautifully : 
For see you not my gentlewomen here, 
How gay, how suited to the house of one, 
"Who loves that beauty should go beautifully ! 
Kise therefore ; robe yourself in this : obey.* 

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen 
Display'd a splendid silk of foreign loom. 
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down the front 
With jewels than the sward with drops of dew. 
When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the day 
Strike where it clung : so thickly shone the gema. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved 
Than hardest tyrants in their day of power. 
With life-long injuries burning unavenged. 
And now their hour has come ; and Enid said : 

* In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's hall : 
In this poor gown I rode with him to court. 
And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal quest 
Of honour, where no honour can be gain'd ; 
And I'his poor gown I will not cast aside 
UutU himself arise a livmg man, 



244 ENID. 

And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough : 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : 
I never loved, can never love but him : 
Yea, Gotl, I pray you of your gentleness, 
He being as he is, to let me be.' 

Then strode' the brute Earl up and down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between his teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood 
Crying, ' I count it of no more avail. 
Dame to be gentle than ungentle with you ; 
Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 

Then Enid in her utter helplessness. 
And since she thouglii, • tie had not dared to do it, 
Except he surely knew my lord Avas dead,' 
Kent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap. 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield). 
Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Kose when they saw the dead man rise, and fle^l 
YeUing as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said • 

* Enid, I have used you worse than that dead 
man ; 
Done you more wrong : we both have undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. 
And here 1 lay this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yester-mora — ^ 



ENID. 245 

You thought me sleeping, but 1 heard you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true wife : 
I swear I will not ask your meaning in it : 
I do believe yourself against yourself, 
And will henceforward rather die than doubt* 

And Enid could not say one tender word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : 
She only prayed him, ' Fly, they will return 
And slay you ; fly, your charger is without, 
My palfrey lost.' ' Then, Enid, shall you ride 
Behind me.' ' Yea,' said Enid, ' let us go.' 
And moving out they found the stately horse, 
Who now no more a vassal to the thief. 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop 'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair : and she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, 
Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot 
She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms 
About him, and at once they rode away. 



And never yet, since high in Paradise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous hour 
Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, 
And felt him hers again : she did not weep, 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 
Like that which kept the heart of Eden green 
Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes 
As not to see before them on the path, 
Kight in the gateway of the bandit hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, feai'ing for his hurt aud loss of blood, . 



246 ENID. 

She, witli her mind all full of what had chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger, ' Slay not a dead man 1 * 
' The voice of Enid,' said the knight ; but she, 
Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again, 
* O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake • 
' My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love ; 
I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, 
Who love you, Prince, with something of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high in pride 
That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.' 

' He hears the judgment of the King of Kings,' 
Cried the wan Prince ; ' and lo the powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd,' and he pointed to the field, 
Where, huddled here and there on mound and 

knoll, 
Were men and women staring and aghast, 
While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. 
But when the knight besought him, ' Follow me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear 
Speak what has chanced ; you surely have endured 
Strange chances here alone ; ' that other ilush'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in reply, 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, 
And after madness acted question ask'd : 
Till Edyrijt grying, ' If you will not go 



ENID. 241 

To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you/ 
' Enough,' he said, ' I follow,' and they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears 
f^ se from the bandit scatter'd in the field, 
And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, 
When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side, 
She slirank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old fires have broken, men may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said : 

* Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless cause to make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood 
Break into furious flame ; being repulsed 
By Ynlol and yourself, I schemed and wrought 
Until 1 overturu'd him ; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a paramour ; 
Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism. 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself 
Unconquerable, for I was well-nigh mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized yourself. 
1 lived in hope that sometime you would come 
To these my lists with him whom best you loved ; 
And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd heaven. 
Behold me overturn and trample on him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, 
I should not less have kill'd him And you 

came, — 
But once you came, — -and with your own true eyei 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 
Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 
My proud self, and my purpose three years old, 
And set his foot upon me, and give me life. 
Thora was I broken dowa ] there was I saved ; 



248 ENID. 

Tho* thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life 

He save me, meaning to be rid of it. 

And all the penance the Queen laid upon me 

Was but to rest awhile within her court ; 

Where first as sullen as a l^east new-caged, 

And waiting to be treated like a wolf, 

Because I knew my deeds were known, I found 

Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn. 

Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 

Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace 

Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 

To glance behind me at my former life, 

And find that it had been the wolf's indeed : 

And oft I talk'd with Dnbric, the high saint, 

Who, with mild heat of holy oratory. 

Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness. 

Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. 

And you were often there about the Queen, 

But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saw; 

Nor did I care or dare to speak with you. 

But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; 

And fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend or foe. 
There most in those who most have done them ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a word, 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
In converse for a little, and return'd. 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse. 
And kiss'd her Avith all purenbss, brother-like, 
And show'd an empty tent allotted her. 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and said : 

* Pdnce, when of late you pray'd me for my leavo 



ExiD. 249 

To move to j'our own land, and there defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with some reproof, 
As one that let foul wronix stagnate and be, 
By having look'd too niueli thro' alien eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated hands 
Not used mine own : but now behold me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, 
With Edyrn and with others : have you look'd 
At Edyrn ? have you seen how nobly changed ? 
This work of his is great and wonderful. 
His very face with change of heart is changed. 
The world will not believe a man repents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly right. 
Full seldom does a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him everyway 
One of our noblest, our most valorous, 
Sanest and most obedient : and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself 
After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand-fold more great and wonderful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking his hfe, 
My subject with my subjects under him, 
Should make an onslaught single on a realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one. 
And were himself nigh wounded to the death.* 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the Prince, and 
felt 
His work was neither great nor wonderful. 
And past to Enid's tent ; and thither came 
The King's own leech to look into his hurt ; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and there 
Her constant motion round him, and the breath 



250 ENID. 

Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper and Avith ever deeper love, 
As the south-west that blowing Bala lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, 
The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes 
On whom his father Uther left in charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the King : 
He look'd and found them wanting ; and as now 
Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills 
To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, 
He rooted out the slothful officer 
Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at wrong, 
And in their chairs set up a stronger race 
With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men 
To till the wastes, and moving everywhere 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the law, 
And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land* 

Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more embraced hef 

friend, 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take again 
That comfort from their converse which he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them to the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own land. 
And there he kept the justice of the King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 
Applauded and the spiteful whisper died : 
And being ever foremost in the chase, 
And victor at the tilt and tournament. 
They call'd him the great Prince and man of meiL 



ENID. 251 

But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Geraints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more 
But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless King 



VIVIEN. 



A STORM was coming, but the winds were still, 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow huge and old 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court : 
She hated all the knights, and heard in thought 
Their lavish comment when her name was nameC. 
For once, when Arthur walking all alone, 
Vext at a rumour rife about the Queen, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, 
And flutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by • 
But one had watch'd, and had not held his peace • 
It made the l?.ughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blameless King 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those times. 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, 
"Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens ; 
The people called him Wizard ; Avhom at first 
She play'd about with slight and sprightly talk, 
And vivid smiles, aad faiatly-veuom'd points 



VIVIEN. 253 

Of slander, glancinjr here and grazing tliere ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, and play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unloveable, and laugh 
As those that Avatch a kitten ; thus he grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and she, 
Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd, 
Began to break her sports with graver fits. 
Turn red or pale, would often when they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, 
Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times 
AVould flatter his own wish in age for love. 
And half believe her true : for thus at times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 
Then fell upon him a great melancholy ; 
And leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the beach 
There found a little boat, and stept into it ; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail ; the boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, 
And touching Breton sands, they disembark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the way, 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a charm, 
The which if any wrought on any one 
With woven paces and with waving arms, 
The man so wrought on erer seem'd to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower. 
From which was no escape for evermore ; 
And none could bind that man for evermore. 
Nor could he see but him Avho wrought the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the charm 
Upon the groat Enchanter of the Time, 
As lancying that her glory would be great 
According to his greatness whom she quench'd. 



254 VIVIEN. 

There lay she all her length and kiss'd his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a robe 
Of samite without price, that more exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, 
In colour like the satin -shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, ' Trample mOf 
Dear feet, that I have foUow'd thro' the world, 
And I will pay you worship ; tread me down 
And I will kiss you for it ; ' he was mute : 
So dark a forethought roU'd about his brain. 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long searhall 
In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 

* O Merlin, do you love me ? * and again, 

* O Merlin, do you love me ? * and once more, 

* Great Master, do you love me ? ' he was mute. 
And lissome Vivien holding by his heel. 
Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and SBi^ 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 
Together, curved an arm about his neck. 
Clung like a snake ; and letting her left; hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf. 
Made with her right a comb of pearl to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone out 
Had left in ashes : then he spoke and said, 

Not looking at her, ' who are wise in love 

Love most, say least,' and Vivien answer'd quick, 

* I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's ^rras hall at Camelot : 

But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid child I 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me think 
Silence is wisdom : I am silent then 
And ask no kiss ; ' then adding all at once. 
And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 
Across her nock and bosom to her knee, 



VIVIEN. 255 

And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd herself, 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapour ; till he sadly smiled : 
' To what request for what strange boon,' he said, 
' Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble ? yet my thanks, 
For these have broken up my melancholy.* 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, 

♦ What, O my master, have you found your voice ? 

1 bid the stranger welcome Thanks at last 1 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : 

In mine own lady palms I cuU'd the spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my hands 
And offer'd you it kneeling : then you drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat have given 
With no more sign of reverence than a beard 
And when we halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before her own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled you : 
Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not so strange — 
How had I wrong'd you V surely you are wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than kind.* 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said ; 

♦ O did you never lie upon the shore, 

And wa#h the curl'd white of the coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it breaks ? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable, 



256 VIVIEN. 

Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and lied from Arthur's court 
To break the mood. You follow'd me uuask'd ; 
And -when I look'd, and saw you follomng still, 
My mind involved yourself the nearest thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you truth ? 
You seem'd that wave about to break upon me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the world, 
My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child 
Y'"our pretty sports have brighten'd all again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, next 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, last 
For these your dainty gan^bols : wherefore ask ; 
And take this boon so strange and not so strange/ 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mournfully ; 
* O not so strange as my long asking it, 
Nor yet so strange as you yourself are strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. 
1 ever fear'd you were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd you did me wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be : 
But not of those that can expound themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder ; she will call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful mood 
That makes you seem less noble than yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon. 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear love, 
That such a mood as that, which lately gloom'd 
Your I'ancy when you saw me following }'ou, 
Must make me fear still more you are not mine, 
Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, 
And make me wish still more to learn this charm 
Of woven paces and of Avaving hands, • 
As proof of trust. O, Merlin, teach it me. 
The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. 



VIVIEN. 257 

Far, grant me some slight power upon your fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. 
And therefore be as great as you are named, 
Not mullled round with selfish reticence. 
How hard you look and liow denyingly I 
O, if you think this wickedness in me, 
That I should prove it on you unawares, 
To make you lose your use and name and fame, 
That makes me most indignant ; then our bond 
Had best be loosed for ever : but think or not. 
By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, 
As clean as blood of babes, as Avhite as milk : 

Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 

If these un witty wandering wits of mine, 

Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream. 

Have tript on such conjectural treachery — 

May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell 

Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, 

li' I be such a traitress. Yield my boon. 

Till which I scarce can yield you all I am ; 

And grant my re-reiterated wish, 

The great proof of your love : because I think. 

However wise, you hardly know me yet.' 

And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, 

' I never was less wise, however wise. 

Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust. 

Than when I told you first of such a charm. 

Yea, if you talk of trust I tell you this. 

Too much I trusted, Avhen I told you that, 

And stirr'd this vice in you which ruin'd man 

Thro' woman the first hour ; for howsoe'er 

In children a great curiousness be well, 

Who have to learn themselves and all the world, 

In you, that are no child, for still I find 

Your face is practised, when I spell the Hues, 

1 call it, — well, I will not call it vice : 

But since you name yourself the summer fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, 
VOL. n. 17 



258 VIVIEN. 

That settles, beaten back, and beaten back 
Settles, till one could yield for weariness : 
But since I will not yield to give you power 
Upon my life and use and name and fame, 
Why will you never ask some other boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much.* 

And Vivien, like the tcnderest-hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears. 
* Nay, master, be not wrathful with your maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself forgiven 
"Who feels no heart to ask another boon. 
I think you hardly know the tender rhyme 
Of " trust me not at all or all in all." 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

" In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

" It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

" The little rift within the lover's lute, 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit. 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

" It is not worth the keeping : let it go : 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all." 

O, master, do you love my tender rhyme ? ' 

And Merlin look'd and half believed her true 
So tender was her voice, so fair her face. 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her tears 



VIVIEN. 259 

Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower : 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly. 

* Far other was the song that once I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: 
For here we met, sonic ten or twelve of us, 
To chase a creature that Avas current then 
In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. 
It was the time wdien first the question rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for fame, 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl together, 
And should have done it ; but the beauteous be<ist 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long we rode 
Thro* the dim land against a nishing wind. 
That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, 
And chased the flashes of his golden horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors did — 
Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, 
" Laugh, little well," but touch it with a sword, 
It buzzes wildly round the point ; and there 
We lost him : such a noble song was that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhymo, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm. 
Were proving it on me, and that I lay 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.* 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mournfully ; 
O mine have ebb'd away for evermore, 



260 trviEN. 

And all thro* following you to this wild wood, 

Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 

Lo now, what hearts have men ! they never mouut 

As high as woman in he selfless mood. 

And touching fame, howe'er you scorn my song 

Take one verse more — the lady speaks it -^-^ this: 

" My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier 

mine, 
For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, 
And shame, could shame be thine, that shame wero 

mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all." 

' Says she not well ? and there is more — tliis 
rhyme 
Is likt the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other 
On her white neck — so is it with this rhyme: 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differently ; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls ; 
" Man dreams of Fame while woman Avakes to love.*' 
True : Love, tho' Love were of the grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest ; but Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is nothing to us ; 
And what is Fame in life but half-disfame. 
And counterchanged with darkness ? you yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son. 
And since you seem the Master of all Art, 
They fain would make you Master of all Vice.' 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said, 
• I once was looking for a magic weed. 
And found a, fair young squire who s.^j&l.oae, 



VIVIEN. 261 

Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, 

And then was painting on it fancied arms, 

Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun 

In dexter chief; the scroll " I foUoAv fame." 

And speaking not, but leaning over him, 

I took his brush and blotted out the bird. 

And made a Gardener putting in a grafF, 

'\Vith this for motto, " Rather use than fame." 

You should have seen him blush ; but afterwards 

He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, 

For you, methinks you think you love me well ; 

For me, I love you somewhat ; rest : and Love 

Should have some r^st and pleasure in himself, 

Not ever be too curious for a boon. 

Too prurient for a proof against the grain 

Of him you say you love : but Fame with men, 

Being but ampler means to serve mankind. 

Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, 

But work as vassal to the larger love. 

That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. 

Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again 

Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon ! 

AVhat other V for men sought to prove me vile. 

Because I wish'd to give them greater minds: 

And then did Envy call me Devil's son : 

The sick weak beast seeking to help lierself 

By striking at her better, miss'd, and brought 

Her own claw back, and wounded her oAvn heart. 

Sweet were the days when 1 was all unknown. 

But when my name was lifted up, the storm 

Broke on the mountain and I cared not for it. 

Right Avell know I that Fame is half-disfame. 

Yet needs must work my work. Th;it jther fame, 

To one at least, who hath not children, vague. 

The cackle of the unborn about the grave, 

I cared not for it : a single misty star, 

Which is the second in a line of stars 

That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, 

I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 



262 VIVIEN. 

Of some vast charm concluded in that star 

To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear, 

Giving you power upon me thro' tliis charm, 

That you might play me falsely, having power, 

However well you think you love uie now 

(As sons of kings loving in })u pillage 

Have turn'd to tyrants when they came to power) 

I rather dread the loss of use than fame ; 

If yon — and not so much from wickedness, 

As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 

Of overstrain'd affection, it may be, 

To keep me all to your own self, or else 

A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy. 

Should try this charm on whom you say you love. 

And Vivien answer'd smiling as in wrath. 

* Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. Good I 
Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it out ; 

And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger born 
Of your misfaith ; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of mine 
Without the full heart back may meiit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why not ? 

to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by yourself? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
You cage a buxom captive here and there, 
Closed in the lour walls of a hollow tower 
From which is no escape for evermore.' 

Then the great Master merrily answer'd her. 

* Full many a love in loving youth was mine, 
I needed then no charm to keep them mine 

But youth and love ; and that full heart of yours 



VIVIEN. 263 

Whereof you prattle, may now assure you mine : 
So live uncharm'd. For those who wrought it first, 
The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, 
The feet un mortised from their ankle-bones 
Who paced it, ages back : but will you hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme ? 

* There lived a king in the most Eastern East, 
Less old than I, yet older, for my blood 
Hatl earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A ta Arny pirate anchor'd in his port, 
Whc-^e bark had plunder'd tAventy nameless isles ; 
And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, 
He eaw two cities in a thousand boats 
All fighting for a woman on the sea. 
And pushing his black craft among them all, 
He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought her off, 
With loss of half his people arrow-slain ; 
A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, 
They said a light came from her when she moved : 
And since the pirate would not yield her up. 
The Xing impaled him for his piracy ; 
Then made her Queen : but those isle-nurtur'd eyes 
Waged such unwilling tho' successful war 
On. all the youth, they sicken'd ; councils thinn'd, 
And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew 
The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 
And beasts themselves would worship ; camels knelt 
Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back 
That carry kings in castles, bow'd black knees 
Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, 
To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 
What wonder, being jealous, that he sent 
His horns of proclamation out thro' all 
The hundred under-kingdoms that he sway'd 
To find a wizard who might teach the King 
8ome charm, which being wrought upon the Queen 
Might keep her all his own : to such a one 
He promised more than ever king has given, 



264 viviEW. 

A league of mountain full of golden mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, the King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 
To keep the list low and pretenders back, 
Or like a king, not to be trilled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the city gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because the charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizaixl brow bleach'd on the walb: 
And many weeks a troop of carrion crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers.* 

And Vivien breaking in upon him, said : 
* I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks, 
Your tongue has tript a little : ask yourself. 
The lady never made unwilling war 
With those fine eyes : she had her pleasure in it. 
And made her good man jealous with good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor damsel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair? 
Not one to flirt a venom at ber eyes. 
Or pln^h a murderous dust into lier drink. 
Or make her paler with a poison'd i^ose ? 
Well, those were not our days : but did they find 
A wizard ? Tell me, was he like to thee ? * 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm- round \m 
neck 
Tighten, and then dreiv back, and let her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of men. 

He answer'd laughing, ' Nay, not like io me. 
At last they found — hts foragers for charms — 
A litde glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; 



viviEN. 265 

Read but one book, and ever reading grew 
So grated down and filed away with thought, 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadoAv-casting men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it, 
And heard their voices talk behind the wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, powers 
And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and di'iving rain, 
AVhen the lake whiten'd and the pinewood roar'd, 
And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, suun'd 
The world to peace again : here was the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to the King. 
And then he taught the King to charm the Queen 
In such-wise, that no man could see her more, 
Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charn^ 
Coming and going, and she lay as dead. 
And lost all use of life : but when the King 
Made proffer of the league of golden mines, 
The province with a hundred miles of coast, • 
The palace and the princess, that old man 
AVent back to his old wild, and lived on grass, 
And vanish'd, and his book came down to me.* 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily ; 
' You have the book : the <--harm is Avritten in it : 
(jood : take my counsel*, let me know it at once: 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest. 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd thirty-fold, 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound 
As after furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy deep, 
1 yet should strike jpon a sudden means 



266 VIVIEN. 

To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should bhime me then ? 

And smillnof as a Master smiles at one 
That is not of his school, nor any school 
But that where blind and naked Ignorance 
Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, 
On all things all day long ; he answer'd her. 

^You read the book, my pretty Vivien ! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample marge. 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot, 
The text no larger than the limbs of fleas ; 
And every square of text an awful charm. 
Writ in a language that has long gone by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen since 
With cities on their flanks — you read the book 
And every margin scribbled, crost, and cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, hard 
lo mind and eye ; but the long sleepless nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to me. 
And none can read the text, not even I ; 
And none can read the comment but myself; 
And in the comment did I find the charm. 
O, the results are simple ; a mere child 
IMight use it to the harm of any one. 
And never could undo it : ask no more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon me, 
But keep that oath you swore, you might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table Round, 
And all because you dream they babble of you.* 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said : 
What dare the full-fed liars say of me V 
They ride abroad redressing human wrongs I 
They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn. 
The^ bound to holy vows of chastity I 



VIVIEN. 2G7 

Wero I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can understand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch me : swine 

Then answcr'd Merlin careless of lier words. 

* You breathe but accusation vast and vaijue, 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If you know, 
Set up the charge you know, to stand or fall 

And Vivien answer'd frowning wrathfully. 

* O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife 
And two fair babes, and went to distant lands; 
Was one year gone, and on returning found 
Not two but three : there lay the reckling, one 
But one hour old ! What said the happy sire ? 
A seven months' babe had been a truer gift. 
Those tAvelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood. 

Then answer'd Merlin, ' Nay, I know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd from his wife : 
One child they had : it lived with her : she died : 
His kinsman travelling on his own affair 
Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : take the truth. 

' O ay,' said Vivien, ' overtrue a tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, 
That ardent man ? " to pluck the flower in season ; 
So says the song, " I trow it is no treason," 
O Master, shall we call him overquick 
To crop his own sweet rose before the hour ? ' 

And ^lerlin answei-'d ' Overquick are you 
To catch a lothly plume fall'n from the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey 
Is man's good name : he never wrong'd his bride. 



268( VIVIEN. 

I know the tale. An angry gust of wind 
Puff 'd out his torch among the myriad-room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace : then he found a door 
And darkling felt the !?culptilred ornament 
That wreatben round it made it seem his own ; 
And wearied out made for the couch and slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd chastely down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once 
He rose without a word and parted from her : 
But when the thing was blazed about the court, 
The brute world howling forced them into bonds, 
And as it chanced they are happy, being pure.* 

'• O ay,' said Vivien, ' that were likely too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the horrid foulness that he wrought, 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, 
Among the knightly brasses of the graves, 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead ! * 

And Merlin answer'd careless of her charge. 
* A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new wine, 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard ; 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught 
And meant to stamp him with her master's 

mark ; 
And that he sinn'd, is not believable ; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he sinn'd, 
The sin that practice burns into the blood, 
And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be : 
Or els" were he, the holy king, whose hymns 



VIVIEN. ?G9 

Are clianted in the minster, worse than all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, or have ye more ? 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in Avrath ; 
' O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend ? 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamour'd by the child, 
Or whisper'd in the corner ? do you know it ? * 

To which he answer'd sadly, * Yea, I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, 
I'o fetch her, and she took him for the King ; 
So fixt her fancy on him : let him be. 
But have you no one word of loyal praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man?* 

She answer'd with a low and chuckling laugh 
' Him V is he man at all, who knows and winks ? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks ? 
By which the good king means to blind himself, 
And blinds himself and all the Table Round 
To all the foulness that they work. Myself 
Could call him (were it not for womanhood) 
The pretty, popular name such manhood earns, 
Could call him the main cause of all their crime ; 
Yea, were he not crown'd king, coward, and fool. 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said ; 
• O true and tender ! O my liege and king I 
C) seliless man and stainless gentleman. 
Who would'st against thine own eye-witness fain 
Have all men true and leal, all women pure ; 
How, in the mouths of base interpreters, 
From over-fineness not intelligible 
To things with every sense as false and foul 
As the poach'd filth that floods the middle street, 
Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame I ' 

But Viyien deeming Merlin overoome 



270 VIVIEN. 

By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue 
Rage like a fire among the noblest names, 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. 

Her words had issue other than she will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, and made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, 
And mutter'd in himself, ' tell her the charm I 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it not. 
So will she rail. What did the wanton say ? 
" Not mount as high ; " we scarce can sink as low 
For men at most differ as Heaven and earth. 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends of old ; 
All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. 
I think she cloaks the wounds of loss with lies; 
I do believe she tempted them and fail'd, 
She is so bitter : for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as face 
With colours of the heart that are not theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes of times 
Face-flatterers and backbiters are the same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, 
Wanting the mental range ; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level all ; 
Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of note. 
Not grieving that their greatest are so small. 
Inflate themselves with some insane delight. 
And judge all nature from her feet of clay, 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spiritual fire, 
And touching other worlds. I am weary of her. 



VIVIEN. 271 

He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, 
Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
And many-wlnter'd fleece of throat and chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood, 
And hearing ' harlot ' mutter'd twice or thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight, 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of death ! 
White was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger 

puff'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half-clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to her belt. 
And feeling ; had she found a dagger there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to hate) 4| 

She would have stabb'd him ; but she found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way broken with sobs. 

' O crueller than was ever told in tale, 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish'd love ! 

cruel, there was nothing wild or strange. 
Or seeming shameful, for what shame in love, 
So love be true, and not as yours is — nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 

Who call'd her what he call'd her — all her crime, 
Ad — all — the wish to prove him wholly hers.' 

She mused a little, and then clapt her hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and said : 
* Si:abb'd through the heart's affections to the heart 
Seeth'd like the kid in its own mother's milk I 
Kill'd with a word worse than a life of blows ! 

1 thought that he was gentle, being great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller man I 

1 should have found in him a greater heart 
0, 1, that flattering my true passion, saw 



272 VIVIEN. 

The knights, the court, the king, dark In your light, 

Who loved to make men darker than they are, 

Because of that high pleasure which I had 

To seat you sole upon my pedestal 

Of worship — I am answer'd, and henceforth 

The course of life that seem'd so llowery to me 

With you for guide and master, only you, 

Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, 

And ending In a ruin — nothing left. 

But into some low cave to crawl, and there, 

If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, 

Kill'd with inutterable uiikindliness.' 

She paused, she turn'd away, she hung her head, 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh. 
And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
* Come from the storm,' and having no reply. 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest-touching terms 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by him, 
And as the cageling newly flown returns, 
The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing 
Came to her old perch back, and settled there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than in love, 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and rose. 
Her arms upon her breast across, and stood 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd, 
Upright and flush'd J)efore him : then she said : 



viviEX. 278 

* There must be now no passages of love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore. 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd, 
What should be granted which your owu gross 

heart 
Would reckon worth the taking ? I will go. 
In truth, but one thing now — better have died 
Thrice tLan have ask'd it once — could make me 

stay — 
That proof of trust — so often ask'd in vain ! 
How justly, after that vile term of yours, 
1 find with grief! I might believe you then, 
Who knows ? on<}e more. O, what was once to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now has grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell ; think kindly of me, for I fear 
My fate or fault, omitting gayer youth 
Por one so old, must be to love you still. 
But ere I leave you let me swear once more 
That if I schemed against your peace in this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.' 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a 

bolt 
(For now the storm was close above them) struck, 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of the wood 
The dai-k earth round. He raised his eyes and 

saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, 
And deaten'd with the stammering cracks and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying out, 
* O Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save, 
Fet save me ! ' clung to him and hugg'd him close, 
And call'd him dear protector in her fright, 
voi^ u 18 



274 VIVIEN. 

Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, 

But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him close. 

The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 

Took gayer colours, like an opal warm'd. 

She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales : 

She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept 

Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and liege, 

Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, 

Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love 

Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 

Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch 

Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 

Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom 

Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ; 

Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, 

Moaning and calling out of other lands. 

Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more 

To peace; and what should not have been had 

been, 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands. 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead. 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 

Then crying ' I have made his glory mine,* 
And shrieking out ' O fool,' the harlot leapt 
Adown the forest and the thicket closed 
Behind her, and the forest echo'd ' fool.* 



ELAINE. 



Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, 

Elaine the lily maid of Astolat, 

High in her chamber up a tower to the east 

Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 

Which first she placed where mornlnfr's earliest rasy 

Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; 

Then fearing rusi or soilure fashion'd for it 

A case of silk, and braided thereupon 

All the devices blazon 'd on the shield 

In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 

A border fantasy of branch and flower. 

And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 

Kor rested thus content, but day by day 

Leaving her household and good father cllmb'd 

That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her door, 

Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, 

Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms. 

Now made a pretty history to herself 

Of every dint a sword had beaten In it, 

And every scratch a lance had made upon it. 

Conjecturing when and where : this cut is fresh ; 

That ten years back ; this dealt him at Caerlyle ; 

That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 

And ah God's mercy what a stroke was there ! 

And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God 

Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his enemy down, 

And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good shield 



J76 ELAINE. 

Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name ? 
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the prizp. 

For Arthur when none Lacw from whence he 

came, 
Long ere the people chose him for their king, 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonncsse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain side : 
For here two brothers, one a king, had met 
And fought together ; but their names were lost. 
And each had slain his brother at a blow. 
And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all their bones were 

bleach'd. 
And lichen'd into colour with the crags : 
And one of these, the king, had on a crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. 
And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown 
RoU'd into light, and turning on its rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : 
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and 

caught. 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs ' lo, thou likewise shalt be king.* 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his 

knights, 
Sa^'ing ' these jewels, whereupon I chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's not the king's — 
]ior pubHc use: henceforward let there be, 



ELAINE. 277 

Once every year, a joust for one of tbese : 

For so by nine years' proof we needs must learu 

Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow 

In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 

The Heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land 

Hereafter, whicli God hinder.' Thus he spoke : 

And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and 

still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year. 
With purpose to present them to the Queen, 
When all were won ; but meaning all at once 
To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere 
' Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move 
To these fair jousts ?* ' Yea, lord,' she said, 'you 

know it.' 
* Then will you miss,* he answer'd, ' the great deeda 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, 
A sight you love to look on.' And the Queen 
Litled her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. 
He thinking that he read her meaning there, 
' Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is more 
Than many diamonds,' yielded, and a heart. 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 
Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole 
And lets me from the saddle ; ' and the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went his wa 
No sooner gone than suddenly she began. 



278 BLAINE. 

* To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame 
Why go you not to these fair jousts ? the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 
Will murmur, lo the shameless ones, who take 
Their pastime now the trustful king is gone ! ' 
Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain : 

* Are you so wise ? you were not once so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when you loved me first 
Then of the crowd you took no more account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead. 

When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men : many a bard, without offence, 
Has link'd our names together in his lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while the king 
Would listen smiling. How then ? is there more T 
Has Arthur spoken auj^ht ? or would yourself, 
Now weary of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord ? * 

She broke into a little scornful laugh. 

* Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven ? 
He never spake word of reproach to me. 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, 
He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes: 
Some meddling rogue has tampcr'd with him — ela^ 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Hound, 

And swearing men to vows impossible, 

To make them like himself: but, friend, to me 

He is all fault who hath no fault at all : 

For who loves me must have a touch of earth ; 

Xlie low sun makes the colour : Lam yours, 



ELAINE. 279 

Not Arthur's, as you know, save by the bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts; 
The tiny-trumpetinor gnat can break our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they sting. 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights. 

* And with what face, after my pretext made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a king who honours his own word, 
As if it were his God's ? ' 

' Yea,' said the Queen, 

* A moral child without the craft to rule. 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it said 

That men go down before your spear at a touch 

But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great name, 

This conquers : hide it therefore ; go unknown : 

AVin ! by this kiss you will : and our true king 

Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, 

As all for glory ; for to speak him true, 

You know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, 

No keener hunter after glory breathes. 

He loves it in his knights more than himself: 

They prove to him his work : win and return/ 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, 
Wroth at himself: not willing to be known. 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 
Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot, 
And there among the solitary downs, 
Full often lost in fancy, lost his way ; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, 
That all in loops and links among the dales 
Kan to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 
Thither he made and wound the gateway horn. 
Then came an old, dumb, myriad- wrinkled man, 
Who let him into lodging and disarmed. . 



280 ELAINE. 

And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man ; 

And issuing found the Lonl of Astolat. 

With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir haxaine. 

Moving to meet him in the castle court ; 

And close behind them stept tlie lily maid 

Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house 

There was not : some light jest among them rose 

With laughter dying down as the great knight 

Approach'd them : then the Lord of Astolat. 

* Whence comest thou, my guest, and by whaJ 

name 
Livest between the lips ? for by thy state 
And presence I might guess thee chief of those, 
After the king, who eat in Arthur's halls. 
Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, 
Known as they are, to me they are unknown.* 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights. 
Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known. 
What I by mere mischance have brought, mj 

shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not. 
Hereafter you shall know me — and the shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you have. 
Blank, or at least with some device not mine.' 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, ' Here is Ton-e's 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. 
And so, (lod wot, his shield is blank enough. 
His you can have.' Then added plain Sir Torre, 
' Yea since I cannot use it, you may have it.' 
Here laugh'd the father sa\ing ' Fie, Sir Churf, 
Is that an answer for a noi)le knight ? 
Allow him : but Lavaine, my younger here, 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair, 
To ia<tke Ler thrice as wilful as before/ 



ELAINE. 281 

* Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not 
Before this noble knight ' said young Lavaine 
' For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre : 
He scemVl so sullen, vext he could not go : 
A jest, no more : for, knight, the maiden dreamt . 
That some one put this diamond in her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, 
'1 he castle- well, belike ; and then I said 
That if I went and if I fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. 
But father give me leave, and if he will. 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight ; 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Yomig as I am, yet would I do my best.' 

' So you will grace me,' answer'd Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, ' with your fellowship 
O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, 
Then were I glad of you as guide and friend ; 
And you shall win this diamond — as I hear, 
It is a fair large diamond, — if you may, 
And yield it to this maiden, if you will.' 
' A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir Torre, 
* Such be for Queens and not for sim.ple maids.* 
Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, 
Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement 
Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, 
Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return 'd. 
'If what is fair be but for what is fair. 
And only Queens are to be counted so, 
Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth. 
Not violating the bond of like to like.' 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, 
Wou by the mellow voice before she look'd, 



282 ELAINE. 

Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, 

In battle Avith the love he bare his lord, 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with one, 

The flower of all the west and all the world, 

Had been the sleeker for it : but in him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 

And drove him into Avastes and solitudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he Avas, he seem'd the goodliest man, 

That ever among ladies ate in Hall, 

And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice her years, 

Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek. 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which was her doom 

Then the great knight, the darling of the court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his kind : 
"Whom they with meats and vintage of their best 
And talk and minstrel melody entertain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he : 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless man. 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 
He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce design 
Against my house, and him they caught and 

maim'd ; 
But I my sons and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur brokid 
The Fa^a^a yet oace juoru ou Badoa 1^' 



ELAINE. 283 

* O there, great Lord, doubtless,* Lavalne said, 
rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth 
TowaT-d greatness in its elder, ' you have fought. 
O tell us ; for we live apart, you know 
Of Arthui-'s glorious wars.' And Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 
With Arthur in the fight which all day long 
Kang by the white mouth of the violent Glem ; 
And in the four wild battles by the shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion where the glorious King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carved of one emerald, center'd in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord. 
When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in A^ned Cathregouion too. 
And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Trerolt, 
Where many a heathen fell ; ' and on the mount 
Of !Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him, 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried 
" They are broken, they are broken " for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men than he -r- 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills him : I never saw his Hke : there lives 
No greater leader.' 

While lu) uUcr'4 this. 



SJ8-1 ELAINE. 

Low to her own heart said the lily maid 

' Save your j^reat self, fair lord ; ' and when he Cell 

From talk of war to traits of pleasantry — 

Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — 

She still took note that when the living smile 

Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 

Of melancholy severe, from which again, 

Whenever in her hovering to and fro 

The lily maid had striven to make him cheei 

There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 

Of manners and of nature : and she thought 

That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. 

And all night long his face before her lived, 

As when a painter, poring on a face, 

Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 

Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 

The shape and colour of a mind and life. 

Lives for' his children, ever at its best 

And fullest ; so the ftice before her lived. 

Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full 

Of noble things, and held her from hei* sleep. 

Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought 

She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. ^ 

First as in fear, step after step, she stole 

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating : 

Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 

* This shield, my friend, where is it ? * and Lavaine 

Past inward, as she came from out the tower. 

There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, ancJ 

smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy light. 
He had not dream'd she Avas so beautiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 
Rapt on his face as ii' it were a God's. 



ELAINE. 285 

Suddenly flasli'd on her a wild desire, 

That he should wear her favour at the tilt. 

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 

' Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it ia, 

I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 

My favour at this tourney ? ' ' Nay,' said hSr 

' Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 

Favour of any lady in the lists. 

Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know. 

* Yea, so,' she answer'd ; ' then in wearing mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, 

That those who know should know you.' And ht 

turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his mind. 
And found it true, and answer'd, ' true, my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : • 
What is it ? ' and she told him ' a red sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls,' and brought it: then h« 

bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, ' I never yet have done so much 
For any maiden living,' and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her with delight ; 
Buf left her all the paler, when Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd shield, 
His brother's ; which he gave to Lancelot, 
Who parted with his own to fair Elaine ; 

* Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield 
In keeping till I come.* ' A grace to me,' 

She answer'd, ' twice to-day. I am your Squi .* 

Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, ' Lily maid, 

For fuar our people call you lily maid 

In eai-nest, let me bring your colour back ; 

Once, twice, and thrice : now get you h\ nee to 

bed : ' 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own haad, 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd a niinute, 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there — 
Her bright hair blown about the serious face 



286 ELAINE. 

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother^s kiss — 
Paused in the gateway, standing by the shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their arms far-ofT 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs. 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 
A hermit, who had pray'd, labour'd and pray'd 
And ever labouring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shoreclifF cave, 
And cells and chambers : all were fair and dry ; 
The green light from the meadows underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees 
And poplars made a noise of falling showers. 
And thither wending there that night they bode. 

But when the next day broke from underground. 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away : 
Then Lancelot saying, ' hear, but hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,' 
Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant reverence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their own pralsCi 
But left him leave to stammer, ' is it indeed ? * 
And after muttering ' the great Lancelot * 
At last he got his breath and answer'd ' One, 
One have I seen — that other, our liege lord. 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's king of kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken bhnd 
That minute, I might say that I had seen.' 

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd the lists 



ELAINE. 28 J 

By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 

Run thro' the peopled gallery which half round 

Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, 

Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat 

Robed in red samite, easily to be known, 

Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, 

And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, 

And from the carven-work behind him crept 

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make 

Arras for his chair, while all the rest of them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds innumerable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found 

The new design wherein they lost themselves, 

Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, 

Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said, 

* Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat, 

The truer lance : but there is many a youth 

Now crescent, who will come to all I am 

And overcome it ; and in me there dwells 

No greatness, save it be some far-off touch 

Of greatness to know well I am not great : 

There is the man.' And Lavaine gaped upon hia 

As on a thing miraculous, and anon 

The trumpets blew ; and then did either side, 

They that assail'd, and they that held the lists. 

Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move. 

Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 

Shock, that a man far-off might well perccivs, 

If any man that day were left afield, 

The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arma 

And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 

Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd into it 

Against the stronger : little need to speak 

Of Lancelot in his glory : King, duke, earl. 

Count, baron — whom he smote, he overthrew 

But m the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, 



283 ELAINE. 

Kanged with the Table Round that held the lists, 

Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight 

Should do and almost overdo the deeds 

Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other * Lo 1 

What is he ? I do not mean the force alone, 

The grace and versatility of the man — 

Is it not Lancelot ! ' ' When has Lancelot worn 

Favour of any lady in the lists ? 

Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know/ 

* How then ? who then ? ' a fury seized on them, 

A fiery family passion for the name 

Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 

They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds 

and thus, 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they 

made 
In moving, all together down upon him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, 
Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with 

all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, 
And him that helms it, so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and remain*(L 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got. 
But tliought to do while he might yet endure, 
And being lustily holpen by the rest. 
His party, — tho' it seemed half-miracle 
To those he fought with — drave his kitli and kin, 
And all the Table Hound that held the lists. 
Back to the barrier ; then the heralds blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve 



ELAINE. 289 

Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the knights, 
His party, cried * Advance, and take your prize 
The diamond ; ' but he answer'd, ' diamond me 
Ko diamonds ! for God's love, a little air ! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! 
Hence will I and I charge you, follow me not. 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from tKe field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove- 
There from his charger down he shd, and sat, 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, ' draw the lance-head : * 

* Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said Lavaine, 

* I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.' 
But he ' I die already with it : draw — 

Draw' — and Lavaine drew, and that other gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan. 
And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him in. 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 
Hid from the wide world's rumour by the grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling showers. 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, 
His party, knights of utmost North and West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles. 
Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him 
' Lo, Sire, our knight thro' wliom we won the day 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize 
Tjntaken, crying that his prize is death.' 
' Heaven hinder,' said the King ' that such an one, 
So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seeni'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. Gawai'U, rise, 
My nephew, and ride forth and find the knight 
Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. 

VOL. u. 19 



290 ELAINE. 

I charge you tliat you get at once to hoi*se. 

And, knights and kings, there breathes not one oi 

you ^ ^ 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given : 
His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him 
No customary honour : since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, 
Ourselves will send it after. Wherefore take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and return. 
And bring us what he is and how he fares, 
And cease not from your quest, until you find/ 

So saying from the carven flower above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he took. 
And gave, the diamond : then from where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face, arose, 
With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his May 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint 
And Lamorack, a good knight, but therewithal 
Sir Modred's brother, of a crafty house, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and now 
Wroth that the king's command to sally forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, 
Past, thinking ' is it Lancelot who has come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain 
Of glory, and has added wound to wound, 
And ridd'n away to die ? ' So fear'd the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, embracing ask'd, 
♦Love, are you yet so sickV* 'Nay, lord,' she 

said. 
*And where is Lancelot ? ' Then the Queen amazed 
Was he not with you ? won- he not your prize ? ' 



ELAINE. 2M 

' Nay, but one like him/ * Wliy that like was he.' 
A.nd when the King demanded how she knew. 
Said ' Lord, no sooner had you parted from us, 
Than Lancelot told me of a common talk 
That men went down before his spear at a touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he hide his name 
From all men, ev'n the king, and to this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering wound. 
That he might joust unknown of all, 2Pnd learn 
If his old prowess were in aught decay'd : 
And added, " our true Arthur, when he learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory." ' 

Then replied the King : 
* Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he has trusted you. 
Surely his king and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, 
All3eit I know my knights fantastical. 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
^lust needs have moved my laughter : now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, these ! 
Ills kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him; 
So that he went sore wounded from the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his helui 
A sleeve of scarlet, broldered with great pearls. 
Some gentle maiden's gift.' 

'Yea, lord,* she said. 
Your hopes are mine,' and saying that she choked, 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her face, 
Moved to her chamber, and there flung herself 
Pown on the great King's couch, and writhed 

upon it, 
A.nd clench'd her fingers. till they bit the palm, 



292 ELAINE. 

And sliriek'd out * traitor * to the unhearing wall, 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again, 
And moved about her palace, proud and pale. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar grove, 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maid 
Glanced at, ^d cried ' What news from Camelot, 

lord V 
What of the knight with the red sleeve ? ' 'Ho 

won.* 
* I knew it,' she said. * But parted from the jousts 
Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go ; 
Thereon she smote her hand : well-nigh she 

swoon'd : 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came 
The lord of Astolat out, to whom the Pi-ince 
Reported who he was, and on what quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find 
The victor, but had ridden wildly round 
To seek him and was wearied of the search. 
To whom the lord of Astolat ' Bide with us. 
And ride no longer wildly, noble Prince ! 
Here was the knight, and here he left a shield ; 
This will he send or come for : furthermore 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon, 
Needs must we hear.' To this the courteous Princ€ 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 
And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier ? then her 

shape 
From forehead down to foot perfect — again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 
Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild llower for me I 
And oft they met among the garden yews, 



ELAIKE. 233 

And there he set himself to play upon her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a height 
Above her, graces of the court, and songs, 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence 
And amorous adulation, till the maid 
Kebeird against it, saying to him, ' Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to i-ee the shield he left, 
Whence you might learn his name? Why slight 

your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday. 
Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and went 
To all the winds ? ' ' Nay, by mine head,' said he, 

* I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 

damsel, in the light of your blue eyes : 
But an you will it let me see the shield.' 

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain 

saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold, 
Kamp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock'd ; 

* Riilht was the Kino ! our Lancelot ! that true 

man! 

* And right was I,' she answer'd merrily, ' I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all.* 

* And if / dream'd,' said Gawain, ' that you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, you know it I 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ? ' 
Full simple was her answer ' What knoAV I ? 

My brethren have been all my fellowship, 
And I, when often they have talk'd of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, 
Mesecm'd, of what they knew not ; so myself — 

1 know not if I know what true love is. 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
Methinks there is none other I can love.' 

Yea, by God's death,' said he, ' you love him well, 
But would not, knew you what all others know, 
And whom he loves.' ' So be it,' cried Elaine, 



294 ELAINE. 

And lifted her fair face and moved away : 

But he pursued her caUing ' Stay a little ! 

One golden minute's grace : he wore your sleeve , 

Would he break faith with one I may not name ? 

Must our true man change like a leaf at last? 

May it be so ? why then, far be it from me 

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves ! 

And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave 

]\Iy quest with you ; the diamond also : here 1 

For if you love, it Avill be sweet to give it ; 

And if he love, it will be sweet to have it 

From your own hand ; and whether he love orno^ 

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 

A thousand times ! — a thousand times farewell ! 

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two 

May meet at court hereafter : there, I think, 

So you will learn the courtesies of the court, 

We two shall know each other.' 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there told the King 
Wliat the King knew ' Sir Lancelot is the knight.' 
And added ' Sire, my liege, so much I learnt ; 
But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid. 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him ; and to her, 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
I gave the diamond : she will render it ; 
For by mine bead she knows his hiding-place.* 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied, 
Too courteous truly ! you shall go no more 
On quest of mine, seeing that you forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.' 



ELAINE. 295 

He spake and parted. "Wrotb but all in awe, 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, 
Lingerd that otheu, staring after hira ; 
Then shook his hair, strode ofi", and buzz'd abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and her love. 
All ears were priek'd at once, all tongues were 

loosed : 
' The maid of Astolat lores Sir Lancelot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.' 
Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and 

all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, but most 
Fredoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it before. 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's point with pale tranquillity. 
So ran the tale like fire about the court. 
Fire in dry stubble a nine days' wonder flared : 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen who sat 
With lips severely placid felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats became 
As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone. 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said. 
' Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and now, 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ? ' 
Nay,' said he, ' surely.' ' Wherefore let me hence^ 
She amiwer'd, ' and find out our dear Lavaiae.' 



296 ELAINE 

You will not lose your wits for dear Lavanie 
Bide,' answer'd he : ' we needs must hear anon 
Of him, and of that other.' ' Ay,' she said, 

* And of that other, for I needs must hence 
And find that other, wherosoe'er he be, 

And with mine own hand give his diamond to Iiimi 
Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 
As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. 
The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, 
Wy father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as you know. 
When these have worn their tokens : let me bene© 
I pray you.' Then her father nodding said, 
*Ay, ay, the diamond : wit you well, my child, 
Kight fain were I to learn this knight were whole. 
Being our greatest : yea, and you must give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is bung too high 
For any mouth to gape for save a Queen's — • 
Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you gone> 
Being so very wilful you must go.* 

■ Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away, 
And while she made her ready for her ride. 
Her father's latest wonl humm'd in her ear, 

* Being so very wifful you must go>' 

And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 
^B-eing so very wilful you must die.' 
But she was happy enough and shook it oiT, 
As we shake oil" the bee that buzzes at us ; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
What matter, so I help liim back to life ? * 
Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother Avith a happy face 
Making a roan hoi-se caper and curvet 



ELAINE. 297 

For pleasure all about a field of flowers : 

Whom when she saw, 'Lavaine,' she cried, 'La» 

value, 
IFow fares my lord Sir Lancelot? * He amazed, 
' Torre and Elaine ! Avhy here ? Sir Lancelot ! 
How know you my lord's name is Lancelot V * 
But when the maid had told him all her tale, 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his moods 
Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, 
Whore Arthur's wars were render'd mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; 
And her Lavaine across the poplar grove 
Led to the caves : there first she saw the casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his helm. 
But meant once more perchance to tourney in It 
And when they gain'd the cell in which he slept, 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made them move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a placj3 so still 
AVoke the sick knight, and while he roU'd his eyefl 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying 
' Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:* 
His eyes glisten'd : she fiincied ' is it for me ? ' 
And when the maid had told him all the tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed. 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as yfe kiss the child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the floor. 



298 ELAINE. 

'Alas,* he said, ' your ride has wearied you. 
Rest must you have.' * No rest for me,' she said ; 
' Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.' 
What might she mean by that? his large blac* 

eyes, 
5ret larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her, 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 
In the heart's colours on her simple face ; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in mind, 
And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the colour ; woman's love, 
Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields, 
And past beneath the wildly-sculptured gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night : but woke with dawn, and 

past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields, 
Thence to the cave : so day by day she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him, 
And likewise many a night : and Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times 
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick child. 
And never woman yet, since man's first fall. 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 
Upbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in all 
The simples and the science of that time. 
Told him that her fine care had saved his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple blush. 
Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and regret 



ELAINE. 29# 

Her parting step, and held her tenderly, 
And loved her with all love except the love 
Of man and woman when they love their best 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her first 
She might have made this and that other world 
Another world for the sick man ; but now 
The shackles of an old love straiten'd him, 
His honour rooted in dishonour stood, 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not live : 
For when the blood ran lustier in him again, 
Full often the sweet image of one face, 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 
Dispersed his resolution Hke a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not, 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but what thii 

meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her sight, 
And drave her ere her time across the fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd ' vain, in vain : it cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then '? must I die.* 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird. 
That has but one plain passage of few notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, ' must I die ? ' 
And now to right she turn'd, and now to left. 
And found no ease in turning or in rest ; 
And ' him or death ' she mutter'd, ' death or him. 
Again and like a burthen, ' him or death.' 



%00 ELAINE. 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whoIOi 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self 
In that wherein she deeni'd she look'd her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought 
' If I be loved, these <xvq my festal robes, 
If not, the victim's flowers before he fall/ 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift of him 
For her own self or hers ; ' and do not shun 
To speak the wish most near to your true heart ; 
Such service have you done me, that I make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I can.* 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, 
But like a ghost without the power to speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, 
And bode among them yet a little space 
Till he should learn it ; and one morn it chanced 
He found her in among the garden yews, 
And said, ' Delay no longer, speak your wish. 
Seeing I must go to-day : ' then out she brake ; 
' Going ? and we shall never see you more. 
And I must die for want of one bold word.' 

* Speak : that I live to hear,' he said, ' is yours.* 
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke : 

' I have gone mad. I love you : let me die.* 
' Ah sister,' answer'd Lancelot, ' what is this ? * 
.And innocently extending her white arms, 
' Your love,' she said, ' your love — to be your 

wife.' 
And Lancelot answer'd, ' Had I chos'n to wed, 
I had been Avedded earlier, sweet Elaine : 
But now there never will be wife of mine.* 

* No, no,' she cried, ' I care not to be wife, 
But to be with you still, to see your face, 

To serve you, and to follow you thro' the world.' 
And Lancelot answer'd, ' Nay, the world, the world, 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 



ELAmE. 301 

To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — nay, 
Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, ^ 
And )'Our good father's kindness.' And she said, 
' Not to be with you, not to see your face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are done.' 
' Nay, noble maid,' he answer'd, ' ten times nay ! 
This is not love : but love's first flash in youth. 
Most common : yea I know it of mine own self: 
And }0u yourself will smile at your own self 
Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : 
And then will I, for true you are and sweet 
Beyond mine old belief in woipanhood. 
More specially should your good knight be poor, 
Endow you with broad land and territory 
Even to the half my realm beyond the seas. 
So that would make you happy : furthermore, 
Ev'n to the death, as tho' you were my blood, 
In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, 
And more than this I cannot.' 

~ While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then rephed ; 
» Of all this will I nothing ; ' and so fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls ol 
yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father. ' Ay, a flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 
Too courteous are you, fair Lord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion.' 

Lancelot said, 
That were against me : what I can I will ; * 
And there that day remain'd, and toward even 
Sent for his shield ; full meekly rose the maid, 



90% ELAINE. 

Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, and look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, 
Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : 
His very shield was gone ; only the case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labour, left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture form'd 
And grew between her and the pictured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low tones 
' Have comfort,' whom she greeted quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, ' Peace to thee, 
Sweet sister,* whom she answer'd with all calm. 
But when they left her to herself again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd; the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. 

And in those days she made a little song. 
And call'd her song ' The Song of Love and Death, 
And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing. 

" Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must 
be: 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me. 
O Love, if death be swetitei, let me die. 



ELAIXB. 303 

" Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away- 
Sweet death that seems to make us loveless clay, 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" I fain would follow love, if that could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice, and thia, 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and 

thought 
With shuddering ' Hark the Phantom of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death,' and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling ' Let me die 1 ' 

As when we dwell upon a word we know 
Repeating, till the word we know so well 
Becomes a wonder and we know not why, 
So dwelt the father on her face and thought 
* Is this Elaine ? ' till back the maiden fell. 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said ' Sweet brothers, yesternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again. 
As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, 
A.nd when you used to take me with the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only you would not pass beyond the cape 
That has the poplar on it : there you fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. • 

And yet I cried because you would not pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet you would not ; but this night I dream'd 
That 1 was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said "Now shall I have my will : " 



804 ELAINE. 

And there I woke, but still the wish remain'cL 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 
Until I find the palace of the king. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
And no man there will dare to mock at me ; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me ; 
Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went nor bad me one : 
And there the King will know me and my love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity me, 
And all the gentle court will welcome me. 
And after my long voyage I shall rest ! ' 

' Peace,' said her father. ' O my child, you seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore would you look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all ? * 

Then the rough Torre began to heave and movOt 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say. 

* I never loved him : an I meet with him, 
I care not howsoever great he be. 

Then will I strike at him and strike him down, 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead. 
For this discomfort he hath done the house.' 

To which the gentle sister made reply, 

* Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 

Not to love me, than it is mine to love 

likn of all men Avho seems to me the highest.* 

* Highest ? ' the Father answer'd, echoing ' higli- 
est? 
(He meant to break the passion in her) ' nay, 
Daughter, I know not what you call the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people know it, 



ELAINE. SQ& 

He loves the Queen, and in an open shanw: 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be high, what is it to l>e low ? ' 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat ; 

* Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
iJut now it is mj' glory to have loved 

One peerless, without stain : so let me pasc. 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Kot all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, 
Thanks, but you work against your own desire ; 
For if I could believe the tilings you say 
I should but die the sooner ; wherefore cease. 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.* 

So when the ghostly man had come and gonOj 
She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, 
Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word tor word ; and when he ask'd 

* Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord ? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; * she replied, 

* For Lancelot and the Queen and all the woi4d, 
But I myself must bear it.' Then he wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being writ 

And folded, ' O sweet father, tender and tru,e. 

Deny me not,' she said — ' you never yet 

Denied my fanc.-ies — this, however strange, 

My latest : lay tlae letter in mj- hand 

A little ere I die, and close the hand 

Upon it; I shall guard it even in death. 

And when the heat is gone fix>m out my bearfe, 

Then take the little bed on which I died 

For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen 'i 

Vi3Lu II. 20 



306 ELAINE. 

For ricliness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own self. 
And none of you can speak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.' 

She ceased : her father promised ; whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun bi-ake from underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone 
Pull-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house, 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed, 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazoning?. 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to her 
* Sister, larewell for ever,' and again 
' Farewell, sweet sister." parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead 
Steer'd by the dumb went upward with the tiood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 



ELAINE. 307 

The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly gift, 
Hard-won and hardly Avon with bruise and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost his own, 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but that he, 
Low-drooping till he Avellnigh kiss'd her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of a piece of pointed lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, 
And parted, laughing in his courtly heart 

All in an oriel on the summer side. 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling utter'd, ' Queer , 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy. 
Take, what I had not won except for you. 
These jewels, and make me happy, making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are words: 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my Queen, 
X hear of rumours Hying thio' your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, 
bhould have in it an absoluter trust 



808 ELAINE. 

To make up that defect : let rumours be : 
When did not rumours fly ? these, as I trust 
That you trust me in your own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe.' 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off. 
Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand 
deceived at once and laid aside the gems 
There on a table near her, and replied. 

' It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are these ? 
Diamonds for me I they had been thrice their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost }'our own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her ! for your new fancy. Only this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. 
I doubt not that however changed, you keep 
So much of what is graceful : and myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy 
In which as Arthur's queen I move and rule : 
So cannot speak my mind. An end to this I 
A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines me down 
An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 
O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds— hers not mine — 



ELAINE. 30& 

Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself, 

Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — 

She shall not have them.' 

Saying which she seized^ 
And, thro' the casement standing wide for heat. 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, and smote the 

stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust 
At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge, 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the door; to 

whom, 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier. 
Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that 

ask'd 

* What is it ■? ' but that oarsman's haggard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and they said, 

♦ He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair! 
Yea but how pale I what are they ? flesh and 

blood ? 
Or come to take the King to fairy land ? 
I'or some do hold our Arthur cannot die, 
But that he passes into fairy land.* 

While thus they babbled of the King, the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the tongueleu 



810 ELAINE. 

From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 

And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 

So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale 

And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ; 

And reverently they bore her into hall. 

Then came the fine Gawain and wondcr'd at her, 

And Lancelot later came and mused at her, 

And last the Queen herself and pitied her: 

But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 

Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; this was alL 

* Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell, 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return. 
And therefore my true love has been my death. 
And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 
And to all other ladies, 1 make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too. Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless.' 

Thus he read. 
And ever in the reading, lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times. 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lipa, 
Who had devised the letter, moved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all ; 
' My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's death 
Right heavy am I ; for good she was and true. 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave 
No cause, uot willingly, for such a love ; 



ELAINE. 311 

To this I call my friends in testimony, 
Her brethren, and her father, who himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I did. 
I left her and I bad her no farcAvell. 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would have died, 
I might have put my wits to some rough use, 
And help'd her from herself.' 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) 
* You might at least have done her so much grace, 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her 

death.' 
He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, 
He adding, 

* Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the world, sho 

ask'd ; 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
AVas but the flash of youth, would darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — -'then would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, poor. 
Estate them with large land and territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas. 
To keep them in all joyance : more than this 
I could not ; this she would not, and she died.* 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, ' O my knight. 
It will be to your worship, as my knight, 
And mine, as head of all our Table Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully.' 

So toward that shrine which then in all the 
realm 
Was richest, Arthur l«^ading, slowly went 
The marshall'd order of their Table Bound, 



812 ILAIXE. 

And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see 

The maiden buried, not as one unknown, 

Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, 

And mass, and rolling music, like a Queen. 

And when the knights had laid her comely bead 

Low iYi the dust of half-forgotten kings, 

Then Arthur spake among them, ' Let her tomb 

Be costly, and her image thereupon. 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 

Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 

And let the story of her dolorous voyage 

For all true hearts be blazon'd on her tomb 

In letters gold and azure ! ' which was wrought 

Thereafter ; but when now tlie lords and dames 

And people, from the high door streaming, brake 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 

Who marked Sir Lancelot where he moved apart. 

Drew near, and sigh'd in passing ' Lancelot, 

Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love.' 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 

' That is love's curse ; pass on, my Queen, forgivert 

But Arthur who beheld his cloudy brows 

Approach'd him, and with full affection flung 

One arm about his neck, and spake and said. 

' Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have 
Most love and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my side, 
And many a time have watch'd thee at the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long-practised knight, 
And let the younger and unskill'd go by 
To win his honour and to make his name, 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved ; — but now I would to God, 
For the wild people say wild things of tliee. 
Thou could'st have loved this maiden, shaped, i\ 

seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her face, 
If oue ma^' judge the living by the dead, 



ELAINE. 3121 

Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 

Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man 

Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 

Born to the glory of thy name and fame. 

My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.' 

Then answer'd Lancelot, * Fair she was, my 
King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.' 

' Free love, so bound, were freest,' said the King. 
* Let love be free ; free love is for the best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think, 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.' 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her moving down, 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself ' Ah, simple heart and sweet, 
You loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. " Jealousy in love ? " 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, 
May not your crescent fear for name and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes ? 
Why did the King dwell on my name to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, 



tl4 ELAINE. 

Lancelot, whom tlie Lady of the lake 
Stole from his mother — as the story runs — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious song 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn 
She kiss'd me saying thou art fair, my child, 
As a king's son, and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it be I 
For what am I ? what profits me my name 
Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and have it 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain ; 
Now grown a part of me : but what use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my sin known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great ? 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must break 
These bonds that so defame me : not without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ? nay, 
Who knows '? but if I would not, then may God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me far, 
And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, 
Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.* 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 



GUINEVERE. 



Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
A novice : one low light betwixt them burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face. 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight 
Sir Modred ; he the nearest to the King, 
His nephew, ever like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : for this, 
He chill'd the popular praises of the King 
With silent smiles of slow disparagement ; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all his aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when all the cout*. 
Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the may, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and return 'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, 
Climb'd to the high top of the garden-wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might, 



316 GUINEVERE. 

And saw tlie Queen who sat betwixt her best 

Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 

The wiliest and the worst ; and more than this 

He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 

Spied where he couoh'd, and as the gardener's baud 

Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, 

So from the high wall and the flowering grove 

Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, 

And cast him as a worm upon the Avay ; 

But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with .'lust. 

He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, 

Made such excuses as he might, and these 

Full knightly without scorn ; for in those days 

No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn ; 

But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 

By those whom God had made full-limb'd and tall, 

Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect. 

And he was answer'd softly by the King 

And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 

To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice 

Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went : 

But, ever after, the small violence done 

Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart. 

As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 

A little bitter pool about a stone 

On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries 
' I shudder, some one steps across my grave ;* 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in Hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, 



GUINEVERE. 317 

To help It from the death that cannot die, 

And save it even in extremes, began 

To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, 

Beside the placid breathings of" the King, 

In the dead night, grim flices came and went 

Before her, or a vague spiritual fear— 

Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, 

Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, 

That keeps the rust of murder on the walls — 

Held her awake : or if she slept, she dream'd 

An awful dream ; for then she seem'd to stand 

On some vast plain before a setting sun. 

And from the sun there swiftly made at her 

A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 

Before it, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd — 

When lo ! her own, that broadening from her fee^ 

And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and in it 

Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. 

And all this trouble did not pass but grew ; 

Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King, 

And trustful courtesies of household life, 

Became her bane ; and at the last she said, 

* O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 

And if we meet again, some evil chance 

Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze 

Before the people, and our lord the King.' 

And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd. 

And still they met and met. Again she said, 

* O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.* 
And then they were agreed upon a night 
(When the good King should not be there) to meet 
And part for ever. Passion-pale they met 

And greeted : hands in hands, and eye to eye, 
Low on the border of her couch they sat 
Stammering and staring : it was their last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred brought 
His creatures to the basement of the tower 
For testimony ; and :rying with full voice 



818 GUINEVERE. 

' Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused 

Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 

Leapt on him, and huri'd him headlong, and he 

fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off 
And all was still : then she, ' the end is come 
And T am shamed for ever ;' and he said 
* Mine be the shame ; mine was the sin ; but rise. 
And fly to my strong castle overseas : 
There will I hide thee, till my life shall end, 
There hold thee with my life against the world, 
She answer'd ' Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so ? 
Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells. 
Would God, that thou could'st hide me from myself! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 
Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us fly. 
For I will draw me into sanctuary. 
And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse, 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, 
And then they rode to the divided way, 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for he past, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 
Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury 
Fled all night long by glimmering waste. and weald, 
And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan, 
And in herself she moan'd ' too late, too late ! ' 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, 
A blot in heaven, the Haven, flying high, 
Croak'd, and she thought 'he spies a field of death 
For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.* 

And when she came to Almesbury she spake 
There to the nuns, and said, ' mine enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her time 



GUINEVERE. 319 

To tell you; and her beauty, grace and power, 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought, 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, 
But communed only Avith the little maid, 
Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself; but now, 
This night, a rumour wildly blown about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm, 
And leagued him with the heathen, while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then she thought, 
* With what a hate the people and the King 
Must hate me,' and bow'd down upon her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering ' late 1 so late I 
What hour, I wonder, now V ' and when she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; ' late, so late ! * 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and 
said, 
O maiden, if indeed you list to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.* 
Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. 

" Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and 
chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

"No light had we : for that we do repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

" No light : so late ! and dark and chill the night 
let us in, that we may find the light 1 
loo late, too late : ye cannot enter new. 



520 GUINEVERE. 

" Have we not heard the bridegroom Is so sweet »* 

let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late I ye cannot enter now." 

So sang the novice, while full passionately, 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 
Her thought when first she came, wept the sad 

Queen. 
Then said the little novice prattling to her: 

* O pray you, noble lady, weep no more ; 
But let my words, the words of one so small, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do not flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of that, 
Who see your tender grace and stateliness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, 
Kound that strong castle where he holds the Queen 
And Modred whom he left in charge of all. 
The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm. 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. 
For If there ever come a grief to me 

1 cry my cry in silence, and have done : 

None knows it, and my tears have brought me good 

But even were the griefs of little ones 

As great as those of great ones, yet this grief 

Is added to the griefs the great must bear. 

That howsoever much they may desire 

Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud : 

As even here they talk at Almesbury 

About the good King and his wicked Queen, 

And were I such a King with such a Queen, 

Well might I wish to veil her wickedness. 

But were I such a King, it could not be.' 



GUINEVERE. 321 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen. 

* Will the child kill me with her innocent talk ? ' 
But openly she answer'd ' must not I, 

If this false traitor have displaced his lord, 
Grieve with the common grief of all the realm ? ' 

* Yea,* said the maid, * this is all woman's grief, 
Tliat she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.' 

Then thought the Queen within herself again ; 

* Will the child kill me with her foolish prate ? * 
But openly she spake and said to her ; 

O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, 
What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs 
And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? ' 

To whom the little novice garrulously. 

* Yea, but I know : the land was full of signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was knight 
Of the great Table — at the founding of it ; 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he heard 
Strange music, and he paused and turning — thcra 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 

Each with a beacon-star upon his head. 

And with a wild sea-light about his feet. 

Ho saw them — headland after headland flame 

Far on into the rich heart of the west : 

And in the light the white mermaiden swam, 

And strong man-breasted things stood from tha 

sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro* all the land, 

YOL. II. 21 



322 GUiNEVEirK. 

To ^y\nch the little elves of chasm and cleft 
Blade answer, sounding like a distant horn. 
So said my father — yea, and furtliermore, 
Next morninfr, while he past the dim-lit woods, 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside llower, 
That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for the seel: 
And still at evenings on before his horse 
The dickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of fairy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall ; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd ; for every knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts 
While the wine ran : so glad were spirits and men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen.* 

Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly 

* Were they so glad ? ill prophets were they all. 
Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, 
Not even thy wise father with his signs 

And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm ? * 

To whom the novice garrulously again. 

* Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father said, 
Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, 
Between the steep cliff and the coming wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, 
When round him bent the spirits of the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back like flame: 



GUINEVERE. 323 

So said my father — and that night the bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King 
As well-nigh more than man, and rail'd at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois : 
For there was no man knew from whence he 

came ; 
But after tempest, when the long wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of Bude and Boss, 
There came a day as still as heaven, and then 
They found a naked child upon the sands 
Of wild Dundagll by the Cornish sea ; 
And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd him 
Till he by miracle was approve n king : 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth ; and could he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he sang. 
The twain together well might change the world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp, 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would have 

fixH'n, 
But that they stay'd him up ; nor would he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ? ' 

Then thought the Queen * lo 1 they have set her 

on, 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, 
To play upon me,' and bow'd her head nor spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd hands, 
Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, 
Said the good nuns would check her gadding 

tongue 
Full often, ' and, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales 
Which my good father told me, check me too : 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, one 



824 GUINEVERE. 

Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say- 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he died, 
KlU'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back, 
And left me; but of others who remain, 
And of the two first-famed for courtesy — 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King ? ' 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and answered 
her. 

* Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
la open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these two 
Were the most nobly-mannered men of all ; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 

Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.' 

*Yea,* said the maid, 'be manners such fair 
fruit ? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumour runs. 
The most disloyal friend in all the world.' 

To which a mournful answer made the Queen. 

* O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls. 
What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights 
And shallows, all the wealth and all the woe ? 

If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, 
Were for one hour less noble than himself. 
Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, 
And weep for her, who drew him to his doom/ 

• Yea,* said the little novice, ' I pray for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that his, 
Bir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 



GUINEVERE. 825 

As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.* 

So she, like many another babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where she 

would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, 
* Such as thou art be never maiden more 
For ever ! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly. 
And when the Queen had added ' get thee hence 
Fled frighted. Then that other left alone 
Slgh'd, and began to gather heart again, 
Saying in herself ' the simple, fearful child 
Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 
But help me, Heaven, for surely I repent. 
For what is true repentance but in thought — 
Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant to us : 
And I have sworn never to see him more, 
To see him more.' 

And ev'n in saying this, 
Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came, 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest man. 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led tier forth, and far ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time 
Was maytime, and as yet no sin was dream'd,) 



526 GUINEVERE. 

Rodo under groves that look'd a paradise 

Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 

That seeni'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earthy 

And on from hill to hill, and every day 

Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 

The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 

For brief repast or afternoon repose 

By couriers gone before ; and on again, 

Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 

Tiie Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 

That crown'd the state pavilion of the King, 

Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. 

But when the Queen, immersed in such a trance, 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously, 
Came to that point, when first she saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him 

cold, 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not like him, 
'Not like my Lancelot' — while she brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry, 'the King.' She sat 
StilF-strlcken, listening; but when armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell 
And grovell'd with her face against the floor : 
There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from the King : 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her ; then came silence, then a voice, 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' clTanged the King*a 

' Liest thou here so low, the child of one 
I honour'd, happy, dead before thy shame ? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 



GUINEVERE. 327 

The children born of thee are sword and fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, 
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea. 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm, 
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, 
Have everywhere about this land of Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence I come — 

from him. 
From waging bitter war with him: and he, 
That did not shun to smite me in worse way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the Kin^ 
Who made him knight: but many a knight waa 

slain ; 
And many more, and all his kith and kin 
Clave to him, and abode in hi's own laud. 
And many more when Modred raised revolt. 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part, 
True men who love me still, for whom I live, 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on. 
Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my death. 
Howbelt I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me. 
That I the King should greatly care to live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. 
Bear with me for the last time while I show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and their law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways 
Were fiU'd with rapine, here and thero a deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who drew 
The knishthood-errant of this realm and all 



828 GUINEVERE. 

The realms together under me, their Head, 

In that fair order of my Table Round, 

A glorious company, the flower of men. 

To serve as model for the mighty world, 

And be the fair beginning of a time. 

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 

To reverence the King, as if he were 

Their conscience, and their conscience as thoii 

King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden 'passion for a maid. 
Not only to keep down the base in man. 
But teach high thought, j^nd amiable words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame. 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 
And all this throve until I wedded thee ! 
Believing " lo mine helpmate, one to feel 
My purpoce and rejoicing in my joy." 
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ; 
Then others, following these my mightiest knightd, 
Ani drawing foul ensample from fair names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did obtain, 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine 
I guard as God's high gift fi'om scathe and wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live. 
To sit once more within his lonely hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my knights, 
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 



GUINEVERE. 32S 

For which of us, who might be left, could speak 

Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee ? 

And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 

Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, 

And I should evermore be vext with thee 

In hanging robe or vacant ornament, 

Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 

For think not, tho' thou would'st not love thy 

lord, 
ITiy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public foes 
Who either for his own or children's sake. 
To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for pure, 
She like a new disease, unknown to men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns 1 
Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of light. 
The mockery of my people, and their bane.* 

He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again. 

' Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head, 
My pride in happier summers, at my feet 



830 GUINEVERE. 

The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce 

law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with 

one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forijlves : do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 

golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form, 
And beauty such as never woman wore. 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — • 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, 

But Lancelot's : nay, they never were the King's. 

I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh, 

And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and mine own 

flesh. 
Here looking down on thine polluted, cries 
" I loathe thee : " yet not less, O Guinevere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee. 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my fife 
So fiir, that my doom is, 1 love thee still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee stilL 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. 
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are pure 
We two may meet before high God, and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow : 
They summon me their King to lead mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the west. 
Where I must strike against my sister's son. 



GUINEVERE. 831 

Leagued with the lords of the White Horse and 

knights 
Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; 
But hither shall I never come again. 
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more, 
Farewell ! ' 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck. 
And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head, 
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. 

Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found 
The casement : ' Peradventure ' so she thought, 

• If I might see his face, and not be seen.* 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen. 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 

And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face. 
Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, 
AVct with the mists and smitten by the lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship 
Blaze, making all the night a stream of fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more and more 
The moony vapour rolling round tlie King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, 
"Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostUke to his doom. 

Then she strelch'd out her arms and cried aloud 

• O Arthur ! * there her voice brake suddenly. 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base 



832 GUINEVERE. 

Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance. 

' Gone — my lord! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not speak. 
Farewell ? I should have answer'd his farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call him mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
And makes me one pollution : he, the King, 
Call'd me polluted : shall I kill myself ? 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin, 
If soul be soul ; nor can 1 kill my shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, 
The months will add themselves and make the 

years, 
The years will roll into the centuries. 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the world. 
What else ? what hope ? I think there was a hope, 
Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never mocks, 
For mockery is the fumo of little hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven 
My wickedness to him, and left me hope 
That in mine own heart I can live down sin 
And be his mate hereafter in the heavens 
Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord, 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took 
Full easily all impressions from below. 
Would not look up, or half-despised the height 
To which I would not or I could not climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air 
Tliat pure severity of perfect light — 
I wuuted warmth and colour which I found 



GUINEVERE. iSh. 

In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art, 
Thou art the highest and most human too, 
Kot Lancelot, nor another. Is there none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so late? 
Kow — ere he goes to the great Battle ? none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer life. 
But now it were too daring. Ah ray God, 
AVhat might I not have made of thy fair world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature here ? 
It was my duty to have loved the highest: 
It surely was my profit had I known : 
It would have been my pleasure had I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another.' 

Here her hand 
Grasp*d, made her vail her eyes : she look'd and 

saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her 
* Yea, little maid, for am / not forgiven ? * 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping ; and her heart was loosed 
Within her, and she wept with these and said : 

' Ye know me then, tnat wicked one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King. 

shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying " shame." 

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you ; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun like you ; 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, 
But not rejoicing ; mingle with your rites ; 

Pray and be pray'd for ; lie before your shrines ; 
Do each low of&ce of your holy house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 
To poor sick people, richer in his eyes 



884 GUINEVERE. 

Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; 
And so wear out in ahnsdeed and in prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous day, 
"Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.* 

She said . they took her to themselves ; and she 
Still hoping, fearing ' is it yet too late ? ' 
Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. 
Tlien she, for her good deeds and her pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in her, 
And likewise for the high rank she had borne, 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived 
For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, paat 
Xo where beyond these voices there is peace. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



ATLMER'S FIELD. 

1793. 

l)uST are our frames ; and, gilded dust, our pride 
Looks only for a moment whole and sound j 
Like that long-buried body of the king, 
Found lying with his urns and ornaments, 
Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, 
SKpt into ashes and was found no more. 

Here is a story which In rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I sa-vir 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who had served. 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the place. 
And been himself a part of what he told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer that almighty man. 
The county God — in whose capacious hall, 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 
Saw from his windows nothing save his own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than her, 
His (Mily child, his Edith, whom he loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully ? 
But * he that marries her marries her name* 



838 aylmer's field." 

This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A sleepy land where under the same wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year by year; 
Where almost all the village had one name ; 
Where Aylmer foUow'd Aylmer at the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 
Were open to each other ; tho' to dream 
That Love could bind them closer well had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the land. 

And might not Averill, had he wilFd it so. 
Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs. 
Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 
There was an Alymer- Averill marriage once, 
When the red rose was redder than itself. 
And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's, 
With wounded peace which each had prick'd to 

death. 
* Not proven ' Averill said, or laughingly 
' Some other race of Averills ' — prov'n or no, 
What cared he ? what, if other or the same ? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neighborhood, 



aylmer's field. 339 

Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd, 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, 
Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, 
But subject to the season or th^ mood. 
Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glory varying to and fro, 
We know not wherefore ; bounteously made, 
And yet so finely, that a troublous touch 
Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers : 
So much the boy foreran ; but when his date 
Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he 
(Since Averill was a decad and a half 
His elder, and their parents underground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roU'd 
His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, 
Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it green 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass. 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms. 
The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, 
Or from the tiny pitted target blew 
What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd 
All at one mark, all hitting : make-believes 
For Edith and himself: or else he forged. 
But that was later, boyish histories 



340 aylmer's field. 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck, 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love 

Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and faint, 

But where a passion yet unborn perhaps 

Lay hidden as the music of the moon 

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 

And thus together, save for college-times 

Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 

As ever painter painted, poet sang. 

Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. 

And more and more, the maiden woman-grown, 

He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when first 

The tented winter-field was broken up 

Into that phalanx of the summer spears 

That soon should wear the garland ; there again 

When burr and bine were gather'd ; lastly there 

At Christmas ; ever welcome at the Hall, 

On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth 

Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even 

My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid 

!No bar between them : dull and self-involved, 

Tall and erect, but bending from his height 

With half-allowing smiles for all the world, 

And mighty courteous in the main — his pride 

Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — 

He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 

Would care no more for Leolin's walking with her 

Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran 

To loose him at the stables, for he rose 

Twofooted at the limit of his chain. 

Hearing to make a third : and how should Love, 

Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes 

Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow 

Such dear familiarities of dawn V 

Seldom, but when he does, Master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that they 

loved, 



ATLMERS FIELD. 341 

Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that hung 
"With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace, 
]\Iight have been other, save for Leolin's — 
"Who knows V but so they wander'd, hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself 
For out beyond her lodges, where the brook 
Vocal, Avith here and there a silence, ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls 
That dimpling died into each other, huts 
At random seatter'd, each a nest in bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought 
About them : here was one that, summer-blanch'd, 
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's-joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 
The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle : 
One look'd all rosctree, and another wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it ; this, a milky-way on earth. 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves 
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 
Each, its own charm ; and Edith's everywhere ; 
And Edith ever visitant with him. 
He but less loved than Edith, of her poor : 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
Kose from the clay it work'd in as she past, 



342 aylmer's field. 

Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A spk'ndid presence flattering the poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden i)alsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, 
A childly way with children, and a laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage true, 
AVere no false passport to that easy realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side the girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth 
The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles. 
Heard the good mother softly whisper ' Bless 
God bless 'cm ; marriages are made in Heaven. 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. 
My Lady's Indian kinsman unannounced 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair ; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day, 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron ' Good ! my lady's kinsman ! good 1 ' 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd. 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off*, 
Busying themselves about the flowerage 
That stood from out a stiff* brocade in which. 
The meteor of a splendid season, she. 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days : 



aylmer's field. 343 

But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life: 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he : 
I know not, for he spoke not, only showered 
His oriental gifts on everyone 
And most on Edith : like a storm he came, 
And shook the house, and like a storm he went. 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested) there was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence at first, 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got it ; for their captain after fight. 
His comrades having fought their last below, 
Was climbing up the valley ; at whom he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone. 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying 

* Look what a lovely piece of workmanship ! ' 
Slight was his answer ' Well — I care not for it : ' 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd his hand, 

* A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! ' 

* But would it be more gracious ' ask'd the girl 

* Were I to give this gift of his to one 

That is no lady ? ' ^ Gracious ? No' said hd< 



844 aylmer's field, 

' Me ? — bat I cared not for it. O pardoa me^ 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself.' 
*Take it' she added sweetly ' tho' bis gift j 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than you, 
I care not for it either; ' and he said 

* Why then I love it : ' but Sir Aylmer past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing be heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues and reds 
They talk'd of: blues were sure of it, he thought; 
Then of the latest fox — where started — kill'd 
In such a bottom : ' Peter had the brush, 
My Peter, first : ' and did Sir Aylmer know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, 
And rolling as it were the substance of it 
Between his palms a moment up and down — 

* The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon 

him; 
"We have him now : ' and had Sir Aylmer heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ringing of it — 
This blacksmith-border marriage — one they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could trust a child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities I 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd accent) think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 
So freely with his daughter ? people talk'd — 
The boy might get a notion into him ; 
The girl might be entangled ere she knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke : 

* The girl and boy, Sir, know their differences ! * 

* Good ' said his friend ' but watch I ' and he ' enough. 
More than enough. Sir ! I can guard my own.* 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd. 

Pale, Hot on her the thunders of the house 



aylmer's field. 345 

Had fallen first, was Edith that same night ; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece 
Of early rigid color, undor which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanished. He, as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the House 
On either side the hearth, indignant; her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a ieatherfan. 
Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr'd, 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. 
* Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with her. 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands. 
The last remaining pillar of their house, 
The one transmitter of their ancient name, 
Their child.' * Our child ! ' ' Our heiress ! ' * Ours I 

for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said 
' Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget herself 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible. 
Far as we track ourselves — I say that this, — 
Else I withdraw favor and countenance 
From you and yours for ever — shall you do. 
Sir, when you see her — but you shall not see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, but me : 
And you shall say that having spoken with me, 
And after look'd into yourself, you find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a match as this I 
Impossible, prodigious ! ' These were words. 



34& aylmer's field. 

As meted by his measure of himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, ' I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her, 
Never oh never,' for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within, 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying 

* Boy, should I find you by my doors again. 
My men shall lash you from them like a dog ; 
Hence ! ' with a sudden execration drove 
The footstool from before him, and arose ; 

So, stammering ' scoundrel ' out of teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man 
FoUow'd, and under his own lintel stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd. 

Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the land, 
Went Leolin ; then, his passions all in flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his brother's ran. 
And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear ; 
AVhom Averill solaced as he might, amazed : 
The man was his, had been his father's, friend : 
He must have seen, himself had seen it long ; 
He must have known, himself had known : besids, 
He never yet had set bis daughter forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the west, 
Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin to him. 

* Brother, for I have loved you more as son 
Than brother, let me tell you : I myself — 



aylmer's field. 347 

What is tlieir pretty saying ? jilted, is it ? 

Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 

Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame 

The woman should have borne, humiliated, 

I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; 

Till after our good parents past away 

Watching your growth, I seem'd again to grow. 

Leolm, 1 almost sm in envying you : 

The very whitest lamb in all my fold 

Loves you : I know her : the worst thought she has 

Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 

She must prove true : for, brother, where two fight 

The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength, 

And you are happy : let her parents be.' 

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, wealth, 
Their wealth, their heiress! wealth enough was 

theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord of this. 
Why twenty boys and girls should marry on it, 
And forty blest ones bless him, and himself 
Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believed 
This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made 
The harlot of the cities : nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soul with body. Name, too ! name, 
Their ancient name ! they might be proud ; its worth 
AVas being Edith's. Ah how pale she had look'd 
Darling, to-night ! they must have rated her 
Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords, 
These partridge-breeders of a thousand years. 
Who had mildew'd in their thousands, doing nothing 
Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace 1 
Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that I 
Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? fools, 
AVith such a vantage-ground for nobleness ! 
He had kaowji a mou, a quintesseace of maa, 



34S aylmer's field. 

The life of all — who madly loved — and he, 
Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, 
Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 
He would not do it ! her sweet face and faith 
Held him from that : but he had powers, he knew its 
Back would he to his studies, make a name. 
Name, fortune too : the world should ring of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves : 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be — 
* O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my say.* 

At which, like one that sees his own excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but presently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and told 
The vintage — when this Aylmer came of age — 
Then drank and past it ; till at length the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 
That much allowance must be made for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest 
In agony, she promised that no force. 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter hers 
He, passionately hopefuller, would go, 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. ' Write to me ! 
They loved me, and because I love their child 
They hate me : there is war between us, dear. 



AYLMER*S FIELD. 849 

Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we must remain 

Sacred to one another.' So they talk'd, 

Poor children, for their comfort : the wind blew ; 

The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears, 

Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt 

Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other 

In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task ourselves 
To learn a language known but smatteringly 
In phrases here and there at random, toil'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent. 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Thro* which a few, by wit or fortune led, 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room, 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous telle,— 
Old scandals buried now seven decads deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died, 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
Were dead to him already ; bent as he was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he. 
Charier of sleep, and wine and exercise, 
Except when lor a breathing-while at eve, 
Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran 
Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands of power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men 
Scem'd harder too ; but the soft river-breeze, 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fragi'ant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro. 
After his books, to flush his blood with air, 
Then to his books again. My lady's cousin, 
Hali-sickening of his peusion'd afternoon, 



350 aylmer's field. 

Drove in upon the student once or twice, 

Ran a Malayan muck against the times, 

Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, 

Answer'd all queries touching those at home 

With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile, 

And fain had haled him out into the world, 

And air'd him there : his nearer friend would say 

' Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap.' 

Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger forth 

From where his worldless heart had kept it warm, 

Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 

And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 

Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 

For heart, I think, help'd head : her letters too, 

Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 

Like broken music, written as she found 

Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 

Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw 

An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. 

But they that cast her spirit into flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their doors. 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the wind 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale. 
And laughter to their lords : but those at home. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 351 

As hunters round a hunted creature draw 

The cordon close and closer toward the death, 

Narrow'd her goings out and comings in ; 

Forbad her first the house of Averill, 

Then closed her access to the wealthier farms, 

Last from her own home-circle of the poor 

They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet her cheek 

Kept color : wondrous ! but, O mystery ! 

What amulet drew her down to that old oak, 

So old, that twenty years before, a part 

Falling had let appear the brand of John — 

Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now 

The broken base of a black tower, a cave 

Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. 

There the manorial lord too curiously 

Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust 

Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove ; 

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read 

AVrithing a letter from his child, for which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly, 

But scared with threats of jail and halter gave 

To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 

The letter which he brought, and swore besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 

Nor let them know themselves betray'd, and then, 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went 

Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream 
Panting he woke, and oft as early as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothily from the fescue, brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, who made 
A downward crescent of her minion mouth, 
Listless in all despondence, read ; and tore. 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 



352 aylmer's field. 

Were living nerves to feel the rent ; and burnt, 
Now chafing at his own great self defied, 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn 
[n babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Bcatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden babe, 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 
Hopeless of answer : then tho' Averill wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded not, 
But passionately restless came and went. 
And rustling once at night about the place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, 
Raging return'd : nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, 
Watch'd even there ; and one was set to watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all. 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once indeed, 
VVarm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her. 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly 
Not knowing what possess'd him : that one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady fbllow'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love. 
Or ordeal by kindness ; after this 
He seldom crost his child without a sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies : 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : 
So that the gentle creature shut from all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
"With twenty months of silence, slowly lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house, 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men, 
Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found the girl 



aylmer's field. 353 

And flung her down upon a couch of fire, 
Where careless of the household faces near, 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. 

Star to star vibrates light ; may soul to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own ? 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? or why 
That night, that moment, when she named his name, 
Did the keen shriek ' yes love, yes Edith, yes,' 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into flames, 
His body half flung forward in pursuit, 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry ; 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with death 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's blood : 
*From Edith* was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. 
And when he came again, his flock believed — 
Beholding how the years which are not Time's 
Had blasted him — that many thousand days 
Were dipt by horror from his term of life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the first, 
And being used to find her pastor texts. 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him 
To speak before the people of her child. 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose : 



354 aylmer's field. 

Autumu's mock sunshine of the faded woods 
Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once : but every roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless loves 
And double death were widely murmur'd, lefk 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove 
Or kerchief; while the church, — one night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows lingered Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse ' Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! ' 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed half frighted all his flock : 
Then from his height and loneliness of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one sea, 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud, 
And all but those who knew the living God — 
Eight that were left to make a purer world — 
When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, 

wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, 
And worshipt their own darkness as the Highest ? 
* Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baal, 



atlmer's field. 555 

And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 

For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God.* 

Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal. 

The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 

The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 

Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own 

lusts! — ^ 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily grow, 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him ; for thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; 
And tho' thou numberest with the followers 
Of One who cried ' leave all and follow me.* 
Thee therefore with His light about thy feet. 
Thee with His message ringing in thine ears. 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, 
Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God, 
Count the more base idolater of the two ; 
Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' the smoke, 
The blight of low desires — darkening thine own 
To thine own likeness; or if one of these. 
Thy better born unhappily from thee. 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 
By those who most have cause to sorrow for her — 
Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well. 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of com, 
Fair as the Angel that said 'hail' she seem'd, 



356 aylmer's field. 

Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light. 
For so mine own was brighten'd : where indeed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven 
Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway ? whose the 

babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child of shame, 
The common care whom no one cared for, leapt 
To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart, 
As with the mother he had never known, 
In gambols ; for her fresh and innocent eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into nature's music when they saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one 
Was all but silence — free of alms her hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth I 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it not ? 
One burthen and she would not lighten it ? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of difference sparkled out, 
How sweetly would she glide between your wraths 
And steal you from each other ! for she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love. 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to speak — 
AVas always with her, whom you also knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. 
And these had been together from the first ; 
They might have been together till the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt. 
Without the captain's knowledge : hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence with shame ? 



atlmer's field. 357 

Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow 'd walls, 
"My house is left unto me desolate." 

While thus he spoke, his hearers wept ; but some, 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those 
That knit themselves for summer shadow, seowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his head, 
Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldierlike, 
Erect : but when the preacher's cadence tlow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of liis lost child, the wife, who watch'd his face, 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth ; 
And ' O pray God that he hold up ' she thought 
* Or surely I shall shame myself and him.' 

*Nor yours the blame — for who beside your 
hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me you cry 
"Our house is left unto us desolate ? " 
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known, 
O thou that stonest, hadst thou understood 
The things belonging to thy peace and ours I 
Is there no prophet but the voice that calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste ' Repeat * ? 
Is not our own child on the narrow way, 
Who down to those that saunter in the broad 
Cries ' come up hither,* as a prophet to us ? 
Is there no stoning save with flint and rock ? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire ? 
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers, 
Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven. 
But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek^ 



358 aylmer's field. 

Exceeding " poor in spirit " — how the words 
Have twisted back upon themselves, and mean 
Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd my 

voice 
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 
Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 
To inflame the tribes : but there — out yonder — 

earth 
Lightens from her own central Hell — O there 
The red fruit of an old idohitry — 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, 
They cling together in the ghastly sack — 
The land all shambles — naked marriages 
Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd France, 
By shores that darken with the gathering wolf, 
Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 
Is this a time to madden madness then ? 
Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ? 
May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as those 
"Which hid the Holiest from the people's eyes 
Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all: 
Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it : 
O rather pray for those and pity them, 
Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave — 
Who broke the bond which they desired to break, 
Which else had link'd their race with times to 

come — 
Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's good — » 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's death 1 
May not that earthly chastisement suffice ? 
Have not our love and reverence left them bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter in their hall 
For ever and for ever, or one stone 



ATLMER*S FIELD. 35^ 

Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend, 
1 made by these the last of all my race 
JMust cry to these the last of theirs, as cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — " Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ? " ' 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no more : 
Long since her heart had beat remorselessly, 
Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a sense 
Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her ; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that : fain had she closed them now. 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, 
AVifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face 
Seara'd with the shallow cares of fifty years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, folio w'd out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the door ; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood, 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. 



360 aylmer's field. 

But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one month, 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, 
The childless mother went to seek her child ; 
And when he felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the change, 
And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring for ever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own head 
Began to droop, to fall ; the man became 
Imbecile ; his one word was ' desolate ' ; 
Dead for two years before his death was he ; 
But when the second Christmas came, escaped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child ; nor wanted at his end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tender hearts, 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken down, 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms ; 
And where the two contrived their daughter's good, 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run, 
The hedgehog underneath the plaintain bores, 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless face, 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 361 



NORTHERN FARMER. 



OLD STYLE. 



Wheer *asta bean saw long and mea liggin* 'ere 

aloan ? 
Noorse ? thoort nowt o* a noorse : whoy, doctor's 

abean an' agoan: 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor yaale : but I beant 

a fool: 
Git ma my yaale, for I beiint a-gooin' to break my 

rule. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what's naw- 

ways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that 

a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean 

'ere, 
An* I've *ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty 

year. 

HL 

Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my 

bed. 
* The amoight/s a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,' 

*a said, 



362 NORTHERN FARMER. 

An* a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an* I 

gied it in hond ; 
I done my duty by un, as I *a done by the 

lond. • 

IV. 

Larn'd a ma* bea. I reckons I *annot sa mooch to 

lam. 
But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Harris's 

barn. 
Thof a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch 

an' staate, 
An* i' the woost o* toimes I wur niver agin the 

raate. 



An* I hallus comed to 's choorch afoor my Sally wur 
dead, 

An* 'eerd un a bummin* awaay loike a buzzard- 
clock* ower my yeiid, 

An* I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 
'ad summut to saiiy, 

An* I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said ain' I comed 
awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy Marris's barn ! tha knaws she laaid it to 

mea. 
Mowt 'a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, 

shea. 
'Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun uu- 

derstond ; 
I done my duty by un as I 'a done by the lond 

* Cockcb&fer. 



NORTHERN FARMER. SSj^. 



But Parson a comes an' a goos, an* a says it easy 

an* fi-eeii 
* The amoighty's a taiikin' o' you to 'Issen, my friend,' 

says 'eii. 
I weiint saiiy men be loiars, thof summun said it ia 

'aiiste : 
But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd 

Tliornaby waaste. 



D'ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was 

not born then ; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often *eerd un mysen ; 
Moiist loike a butter-bump,* for I 'eerd un aboot 

an' aboot, 
But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, an* raaved an' 

rembled un oot. 

IX. 

Keaper's it wur ; fo* they fun un theer a laaid on 

'is faiice. 
Doon i' the woild 'enemies f afoor I comed to the 

plaaee. 
Noiiks or Thimbleby — toner *ed shot un as dead 

as a naiiil. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at *soize — but git ma 

my yaale. 

X. 

Dubbut looak at the waaste : theer wam*t not fead 

for a cow : 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it 

now — 

* Sittero. t ApemoniBB. 



i^4 NORTHERN FARMER. 

Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots 

o* fead, 
Fourscore yows upon it an* some on it doon in 

sead. 

xr. 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to *a stubb'd 

it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it 

an' all. 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' lond 

o' my oan. 

XII. 

Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o* 

meii? 
I beiint wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a 

pea; 
An' Squoire 'uU be sa mad an' all — a' dear a* 

dear! 
And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas 

thirty year. 

XIII. 

A mowt *a taaken Joanes, as 'ant a 'aapoth o* 

sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaken Robins — a niver mended a 

fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma 

now 
Wi 'auf the cows to cauve an' Thornaby holms to 

plow! 

XIV. 

Looak 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a 

passin' by. 
Says to thessen naw doot * what a mon a be 
-lyl' 



NORTHERN FARMER. 365' 

For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a 

corned to the 'All ; 
I done my duty by Squoire an* I done my duty 

by all. 

XV. 

Squoire's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons *ull 'a 

to wroite, 
For who's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles 

ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to 

Joanes, 
Noither a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the 

stoans. 

XVI. 

But summun 'uU come ater mea mayhap wi' 'Is 

kittle o' steam 
Huzziu' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's 

oan team. 
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an* loife they says is 

sweet, 
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear 

to see it. 

XVII. 

What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma 

the yaale ? 
Doctor's a 'tottler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd 

taiile ; 
1 weant break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor 

nor a floy; 
Git ma my yaale I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I 

mun doy. 



Btf6 THE VOYAGE. 



THE VOYAGE. 



We left beliind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbour-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore I 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail for evermore. 

II. 
Warm broke the breeze against the brow, 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel, 

And swept behind : so quick the run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 

We seem'd to sail into the Sun 1 



How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire. 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light I 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn 
As thro* the slumber of the globe 

Aaain we dash'd into the dawn 1 

IV. 

New stars all night above the brun 
Of waters lighten'd into view j 



THE VOYAGE. 867 

They cllmb'd as quickly, for the rim 
Changed every moment as we flew. 

Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 

Or flying shone, the silver boss 
Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



V. 

The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove, 
Where those long swells of breaker sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



VI. 

By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gioom'd the low coast and quivering brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 



VII. 

hundred shores of happy climes. 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

AVith wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowei-s. 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit. 

But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers. 



368 THE VOYAGE. 



For one fair Yision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we foUow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd " O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 

IX. 

And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the sea, 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 

X. 

And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
" A ship of fools " he shriek'd in spite, 

" A ship of fools " he sneer'd and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 

XI. 

And never sail of ours was furl'd, 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world. 

But laws of nature were our scorn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 

But whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter-gale ? 



THE FLOWER. 869 

XII. 

Again to colder climes we came, 

For still we foUow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 

Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, 

All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 

I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 

All along the valley while I walk'd to-day, 

The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ; 

For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed 

Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, 

And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, 

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 



THE FLOWER. 

OxcE in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower. 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 



$70 BEQUIESCAT 

Then it grew so tall 
It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried 
" Splendid is the flower/* 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place. 

Where yon broad water sweetly slowly glides. 
It sees itself from thatch to base 

Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah how soon to die ! 

Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 



THB SAILOR-BOT. 9fX 



THE SAILOR-BOY. 



He rose at dawn and, fired -with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope, 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

" O Boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 

In caves about the dreary bay. 
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 

And in thy hesirt the scrawl shall play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
To those that stay and those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying ' stay for shame ; ' 

My father raves of death and wreck. 

They are all to blame, they are all to blame. 

" God help me I save I take my part 

Of danger on the roaring sea, 
A devil rises in my heart. 

Far worse than any death to me.** 



572 THE ISLET. 



THE ISLET. 

" Whither O whither love shall we go, 

For a score of sweet little summers or so ** 

The sweet little wife of the singer said, 

On the day that foUow'd the day she was wed, 

*' Whither O whither love shall we go ? " 

And the singer shaking his curly head 

Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 

There at his right with a sudden crash. 

Singing, " and shall it be over the seas 

With a crew that is neither rude nor rash, 

But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 

In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd. 

With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 

To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, 

A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 

Waves on a diamond shingle dash. 

Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 

Fairily-delicate palaces shine 

Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, 

And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 

With many a rivulet high against the Sun 

The facets of the glorious mountain flash 

Above the valleys of palm and pine." 

« Thither thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no I 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear. 

There is but one bird with a musical throat, 

And his compass is but of a single note. 

That it makes one weary to hear." 

" Mock me not I mock me not I love, let us go.** 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree. 



THE RINGLET. 373 



And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonely wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens the blood, 
And makes it a sorrow to be.'* 



THE RINGLET. 

" Your ringlets, your ringlets, 

That look so golden-gay. 
If you will give me one, but one, 

To kiss it night and day. 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold, 

And all her stars decay." 
" Then take it, love, and put it by ; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I.'* 



" My ringlet, my ringlet, 

That art so golden-gay, 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint. 

And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss, 
And I swear henceforth by this and this. 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss, 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
" Then kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I.'* 



S74 THE RINGLET. 



Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 
And Kinglet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden-gay, 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray; 
For what is this which now I 'm told, 

1 that took you for true gold, 

She that gave you 's bought and sold, 
Sold, sold. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red, 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by ! 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie 
You golden lie. 



3. 

O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I count you much to blame, 

For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame, 

So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I doom you to the flame. 

For what is this which now I learn. 

Has given all my faith a turn ? 

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn, burn. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. ^*S 

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

MARCH 7, 1S63. 

Sea-kings* daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra] 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, 
Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 
"Break, happy land, into earlier flowers I 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers 
Blazon your mottos of blessing and prayer 1 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! 
Warble, bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers 1 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air 1 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 
Melt into the stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's desire. 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 
O joy to the people, and joy to the throne, 
Come to us, love us, and make us your own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra 1 



876 ODE. 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE 
INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. 

Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet, 

In this wide hall with earth's inventions stored, 
And praise th* invisible universal Lord, 

Who lets once more in peace the nations meet, 
Where Science, Art, and Labor have outpour'd 

Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. 

O silent father of our Kings to be 

Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee, 

For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee I 

The world-compelling plan was thine, 

And, lo ! the long laborious miles 

Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, 

Rich in model and design ; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry. 

Loom and wheel and engin'ry, 

Secrets of the sullen mine. 

Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 

Fabric rough, or Fairy fine. 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder, out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Part divine I 

All of beauty, all of use, 

That one fair planet can produce. 

Brought from under every star, 
Blown from over every main. 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of war. 

O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign, 
From growing commerce loose her latest cljain. 
And let the fair white-winged peacemaker fly 
To happy havens under aU the sky. 



A DEDICATION. 877 

And mix the seasons and the golden hours, 
Till each man finds his own in all men's good, 
And all men work in noble brotherhood, 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers, 
And ruling by obeying Nature's powers, 
And gathering all the fruits of peace and crown'd 
with ail her flowers. 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near and true — no truer Time himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this, and pray that he, 
"Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, 
May trust himself; and spite of praise and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable world, 
Attain the wise indifi*erence of the wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.* 



THE CAPTAIN. 
a legend of the navy. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 

* The fruit of the Spindle-tree (^Euonymus EuropcBUt.) 



878 THE CAPTAIN. 

Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Sccm'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth, 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the North, her canvas flowing. 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd, 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
" Chase," he said : the ship flew forward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated, 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 379 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shattered, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd ; decks were broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was spoken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name. 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded, 

Pale he turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! 

Years have wander'd by. 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 

Caress'd or chidden by the dainty hand, 
And singing airy trifles this or that, 

Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand, 
And run thro' every change of sharp and flat ; • 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 



880 THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 

When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band, 
And chased away the still-recurring gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and less. 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders far, 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 



The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 
A nobler yearning never broke her rest 
Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest, 

And win all eyes with all accomplishment : 

Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went. 
My fancy made me for a moment blest 
To find my heart so near the beauteous breast 

That once had power to rob it of content. 

A moment came the tenderness of tears, 

The phantom of a wish that once could move, 

A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — 

For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot love, 

And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years. 

She still would take the praise, and caro 
more. 

III. 
Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie ? 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past. 
In painting some dead friend from memory ? 

Weep on : beyond his object Love can last : 
His object lives : more cause to weep have I : 

My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast. 
No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 

Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human tones. 



ON A MOURNER. 881 

Tut breathe it into earth and close it up 
"W th secret death forever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams with weary 
bones. 



ON A MOURNER. 

ITatuee, so far as in her lies, 
Imitates God, and tarns her face 

lo every land beneath the skies, 

Counts nothing that she meets with base, 
Bui lives and loves in every p^^ce ; 

2. 

Fills cut the homely quick-set sci i^^» 
And makes the purple lilac ripe. 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens ^ 

The swamp, where hums the droppmj snipe, 
With moss and braided marish-pipe •, 

3. 

And on thy heart a finger lays. 

Saying, " beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways^ 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 

4. 

And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice. 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 



882 BONO. 

5. 

And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn, 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride, 
From out the borders of the morn, 
With that fair child betwixt them born. 

6. 

And when no mortal motion jars 

The blackness round the tombing sod, 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 

Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod. 
And Virtue, like a household god 

7. 

Promising empire ; such as those 
That once at dead of night did greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



SONG. 

Labt, let the rolling drums 

Beat to battle where thy warrior stands: 
Now thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow. 

Clasp the little babes about thy knee s 
Now their warrior father meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



BOXO. 888 



SONG. 



Home tbey brought him slain with spears. 

They brought him home at even-fall : 
All alone she sits and hears 

Echoes in his empty hall, 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow.*' 



EXPERIMENTS. 



BOADICEA 



While about the shore of Mona those Neronian 
legionaries 

Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid 
and Druidess, 

Far in the East Boadicda, standing loftily char- 
ioted, 

Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce 
volubility, 

Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony 
Cdmulodiine, 

Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a 
wild confederacy. 

* They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's 

barbarous populaces. 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity 

me supplicating? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook 

to be supplicated ? 
Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, 

Trinobant 1 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon 

annihilate us? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily 

quivering ? 



BOADICEA. 



S85 



Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken 
innumerable, 

Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the car- 
cass a skeleton, ^ 

Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolf kin, from tne wil- 
derness, wallow in it. 

Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be pro- 
pitiated. . 

Lo their colony half-defended! lo their colony, 
Camulodune ! 

There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a bar- 
barous adversary. 

There the hive of Roman liars worship a glutton- 
ous emperor-idiot. , o • -i. 

Such is Rome, and this her deity: hear it, Spirit 
of Cassivelaiin! 

*Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, Ice- 
nian, O Coritanian ! ^ - -u 

Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuch- 
lanian, Trinobant. , 

These have told us aU their anger in miraculous 
utterances. 

Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard 
aerially, , ,. c 

Phantom sound of blows descending, moan ot an 
enemy massacred, ^ 

Phantom wail of women and children, multitudi- 
nous agonies. 

Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies 
of horses and men ; 

Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent 
estuary ; 

Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily totter- 
ing — 

There was one who watch'd and told me — down 
their statue of Victory fell. 

Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo th© colony 
Cdmulodiine. 
TOL. n. 2d 



386 



BOADICEA. 



Shall we teacb it a Boman lesson ? shall we care 
to be pitiful? 

Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dan- 
dle it amorously? 

♦ Hear Iceiilan, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, 

Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly 

meditating, 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the mysti- 
cal ceremony, 
Loosely-robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible 

prophetesses. 
" Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery 

parapets ! 
Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gather- 
ing enemy narrow thee, 
Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt bo 

the mighty one yet ! 
Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine tho deeds 

to be celebrated. 
Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow 

illimitable, 
Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossomino' 

Paradises, 
Thine the North and thine the South and thine the 

battle-thunder of God." 
So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon 

auguries happier ? 
So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh 

a victory now. 

' Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, 

Trinobant I 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of 

liberty. 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they 

lash'd and humiliated, 



BOADICEA. 387 

Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian 

violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in 

ignominy ! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to 

be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Cdmu- 

lodiine ! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the 

flourishing territory. 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted 

Briton ess — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, 

inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, 

Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry pre- 
cipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoko 

in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cii- 

nobeline I 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables 

of ebony lay, 
Boiling on their purple couches in their tender 

effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — 

there — they dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the 

works of the statuary. 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold 

it abominable. 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and volup- 
tuousness. 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and 

humiliated, 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash tho 

brains of the little one out. 



SSS BOADICEA. 

Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, 
trample them under us/ 

So the Queen Boadicca, standing loffcily charioted, 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances 

lioness-like, 
Yell'd and shrieked between her daughters in her 

fierce volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous 

lineaments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they 

shiver in January, 
Koar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and 

blanch on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on 

a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adver- 
saries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid 

unanimous hand. 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless 

avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter 

tremulously, 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy 

fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny 

buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous 

agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous 

legionary. 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, 

Camulodiine. 



IN QUANTITY. 889 

IN QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

Alcaics, 

O MiGHTY-MOUTn'D inventor of harmonies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-jrifted organ-voice of England, 

Milton, a name to resound for ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 

Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle. 

And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 

Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 

All composed in a metre of Catullus, 

All in quantity, careful of my motion, 

Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, 

Lest I fall unawares before the people, 



390 TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD 

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 

Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 

Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without a welcome, 

/ill that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, 

So fantastical is the dainty metre. 

"Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 

Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — 

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 

Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE 
ILIAD IN BLANK VEKSE. 



So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host ; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke. 
And each beside his chariot bound his own ; 
And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the * bridge of war 
Sat glorying; many a fire before them blazed: 
As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, 
And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the stars 

* Or, ridge. 



IN BLANK VERSE. Wl 

Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And champing golden grain, the horses stood 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.* 
Iliad VIII. 542-561. 

* Or, more literally — 

And eating hoary prain and pulse the steeds 
Stood by their cars, waiting the throned morn. 



i 



APPENDIX 



The Laureate has seen fit to ignore many of his earlier prodno- 
tions. The one entitled " Hesperides " is too genuine a poem to 
be left out of his works, and it is placed here by the publishers 
of this volume because it is thought worthy of the bard of 
" Locksley Hall " and " The Lady of ShalotU" 



THE HESPERIDES. 



" Hesperus and his daughters three, 
That sing about the golden tree.»' — CoinjS. 



The North-wind fallen, in the new-starred night 
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary promontory of Soloe 
Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, 
Between the southern and the western Horn, 
Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, 
Nor melody o' the Lybian lotus-flute 
Blown seaward from the shore ; but from a slope 
That ran bloom-bright into the Atlantic blue, 
Beneath a highland leaning down a weight 
Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedar-shade, 
Came voices, like the voices in a dream, 
Continuous, till he reached the outer sea. 



SONG. 

I. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed 

fruit, 
Guard it well, guard it warily. 
Singing airily, 

Standing about the charmed rooL 
Round about all is mute, 
As the snow-field on the mountain-peaks, 
As the sand-field at the mountain-foot. 
Crocodiles in briny creeks 
Sleep and stir not : all is mute. 



396 APPENDIX. 

If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, 

We shall lose eternal pleasure, 

Worth eternal want of rest. 

Laugh not loudly : watch the treasure 

Of the wisdom of the west. 

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three 

(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful 

mystery. 
For the blossom unto threefold music bloweth ; 
Evermore it is born anew ; 
And the sap to threefold music floweth, 
From the root 
Drawn in the dark, 
Up to the fruit, 

Creeping under the fragrant bark, 
Liquid gold, honey-sweet, through and through- 
Keen-eyed sisters, singing airily, 
Looking warily 
Every way, 

Guard the apple night and day, 
Lest one from the east come and take it away. 



Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever 

and aye. 
Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. 
Father^ twinkle not thy steadfast sight ; 
Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die ; 
Honor comes with mystery ; 
Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 
Number, tell them over and number 
How many the mystic fruit-tree holds. 
Lest the red-combed dragon slumber 
Kolled together in purple folds. 
Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden 

apple be stolen away, 
For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatchings 

niirht and day. 



THE HESPERIDES. 897 

Round about the hallowed fruit-tree curled : 
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind, with- 
out stop, 
Lest his scaled eyelid drop, 
For he is older than the world. 
If he waken, we waken. 
Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 
If he sleep, we sleep, 
Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 
If the golden apple be taken, 
The world will be overwise. 
Five links, a golden chain, are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 
Bound about the golden tree. 

ni. 

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night 

and day, 
Lest the old wound of the world be healed, 
The glory unsealed, 
The golden apple stolen away, 
And the ancient secret revealed. 
Look from west to east along : 
Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus is bold and 

strong. 
Wandering waters unto wandering waters call ; 
Let them clash together, foam and fall. 
Out of watchings, out of wiles, 
Comes the bliss of secret smiles. 
All things are not told to all. 
Half-round the mantling night is drawn, 
Purple-fringed with even and dawn. 
Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn. 



Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath 
Of this warm sea-wind ripeneth, 



398 THE HESPERIDES. 

Arching the billow in his sleep ; 

But the land-wind wandereth, 

Broken by the highland-steep, 

Two streams upon the violet deep : 

For the western sun and the western star, 

An .^^the low west-wind, breathing afar, 

The eiid of day and beginning of night, 

Make the apple holy and bright ; 

Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest, 

Mellowed in a land of rest ; 

Watch it warily day and night ; 

All good things are in the west. 

Till midnoon the cool east light 

Is shut out by the round of the tall hill-brow ; 

But when the full-faced sunset yellowly 

Stays on the flowering arch of the bough, 

The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, 

Golden-kernelled, golden-cored, 

Sunset-ripened above on the tree. 

The world is wasted with fire and sword, 

But the apple of gold hangs over the sea. 

Five links, a golden chain, are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 

Daughters three. 

Bound about 

All round about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed 

fruit, 
Guard it well, guard it warily. 
Watch it warily. 
Singing airily, 
Standing about the charmed root. 



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